


Red Eyes in the Sand

by NorthernWall



Series: Through These Eyes [2]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: F/M, Ishbal | Ishval, Ishbalan Character(s) | Ishvalan Character(s), Ishvalan Culture, Post-Promised Day, Rebuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-18
Updated: 2018-07-23
Packaged: 2018-10-31 10:53:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 25
Words: 52,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10897866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NorthernWall/pseuds/NorthernWall
Summary: In rebuilding Ishval, Scar searches for redemption and Miles yearns for something more like home. And, while they might not believe in equivalent exchange, there is still a price to pay for the Promised Day.





	1. Anew

**Author's Note:**

> When first writing this, I was aiming to focus primarily on Scar, but Miles kept butting in. :D So they wound up sharing the spotlight. And wherever Miles is, Olivier is never far. 
> 
> This first chapter is a bit depressing for an intro, but I hope it's intriguing enough to keep you going until the next chapter. 
> 
> Enjoy!

_“I’m surprised at you, General, it’s not like you to call secret meetings and skulk about at midnight.”_

_The general in question straightened angrily, hand tightening on the hilt of her sword. “This is important, you goat-faced-”_

_“What really surprises me,” a third general interjected smoothly, “is that your second-in-command isn’t here with you.”_

_“Well, he’s not mine anymore,_ is _he?” The words were hissed more than spoken._

_“Now, now, Brigadier, don’t bait her.”_

_“Of course, Your Excellency. My apologies.”_

_“Now, why did you call this meeting? Something to do with your scar-faced Ishvalan, I take it?”_

_“How did you-?!”_

_“I have my ways.” The Fuhrer twirled his mustache. “So, what about him?”_

_“I need a pardon for him.”_

_“No. Absolutely not.”_

_“I have a plan. If you’ll just listen-”_

_“Actually, I have a better idea.”_

_“You don’t even know what my plan is.”_

_"You want to pardon the Ishvalan and have him help Miles. Am I wrong?" When he received only a glare in response, he continued. "Not all aspects of your plan are conducive to establishing the new regime."_

_"I act for the good of Amestrians, not your political campaign." She snarled. "Do you doubt me?"_

_“No, but I know you’re a sinking ship. The fewer people you take down with you the better, hmm?”_

_“A sinking ship? What do you mean?” The Brigadier, at least, didn’t sound as gleeful as the woman had anticipated._

_“How much time do I have, Sir?”_

_The Fuhrer mused for a minute. “I’d say about a year.”_

_“One year?” She drew a breath and nodded resolutely. “Then, we have a lot of work to do.”_

\---

Not for the first time, Scar found himself staring out across the hot sands of Ishval, with the Amestrian military at his back. This time, though, was so _different_ from the first. Rather than running for his life, pursued by a sea of blood-stained blue uniforms, he was leading the sea to a place to rebuild. The blood had long since been washed from the uniforms, but was heavy on the hands of the soldiers that wore them. In place of his red-eyed brother, he rode with a red-eyed soldier. Yes, things were different.

“[It’s been a long time.]” He murmured, testing the weight of his native tongue in his native land.

“[So it has, brother.]” Miles responded. He twists in his saddle to look at the other man. “Is this where you want to rebuild?” He knew the answer, otherwise they wouldn’t have ridden out ahead of the rest of the caravan to scout.

Scar nodded. “Yes. This is where the original temple, the heart of Ishval, stood.” He pointed, though it was hard to see the ruins of the temple with all the other city ruins. “There’s an ancient underwater spring which has long kept the region supplied with water.”

“The Goddess’s Gift, yes?” Scar nodded, again. “We’ll have a lot of clearing to do before the Grand Cleric arrives.”

Scar’s master has replaced Logue Lowe as the official Grand Cleric, a position left unoccupied since his death. He is leading the refugees back, something that can only occur only because they see him as their new leader; the only way they’ll trust anything associated with the military.

They dismounted and began picking their way over the heaps of rubble toward the old city center, testing their footing carefully as they went.

“Where do we even start?” Scar wondered aloud, staring at the broken, charred, heaps of rubble that had once been Ishval’s greatest city.

“Where was that spring?” Miles’ priorities are deeply practical. Scar pointed to a line of vegetation that weaves and winds, but is the only green for miles. “Ah.” He took a sip from his canteen, and gave Scar a crooked grin. “Did you bring a shovel?”

“I did.” Scar nodded. “I’d rather uncover one of the old wells, though.”

“Right.” Miles shoved the collapsible shovel he’d been taking out back into his pack. “Where do you suggest we look?”

Scar surveyed the ruins for a minute. “This way.” He pointed. “There would have been a well in the temple courtyard. If Ishvala smiles on us, the monks covered it before it was contaminated.”

Together they began shifting the rubble, scraping and clearing at anything that might be large enough to cover a well. At last they rolled a piece of pillar--so broken and damaged that only pure hatred could have led the soldiers to so thoroughly destroy the temple’s architecture--away and revealed a heavy metal well cover.

“Praise Ishvala.” Scar muttered, relief plain.

Miles brought the horses over and they used them to drag away the cover. Fresh, cool, water sparkled up at them. They drank their fill and then watered the horses. As they were refilling their canteens the rest of the caravan rumbled up.

Scar hung back awkwardly as Miles began organizing his men and setting them to work. He volunteers to help the men assigned to clearing an area for base camp. It’s the most he could think to do.

“Hey, Chief.” Breda flagged him. “Mind helping us with this?”

He and another soldier (Avia? Scar couldn’t remember, but he was one of the Northerners) were struggling with a mass of scorched metal that has welded to itself. With an internal sigh, and an external glower, Scar used his arm to break it into smaller pieces and they thanked him.

He had tried to vow to never use his brother’s arm again, but no one had been willing to let him. As he helped cart the metal away, he wondered what they planned to do with it. Miles had ordered the salvageable to be separated from the not, and this was decidedly not.

“Look at them.” Avia (Scar was certain as soon as he spoke--the man’s whining was _legendary_ ) complained, suddenly. “I never get to do anything cool.”

They turned and looked. Miles had rounded up his five Briggs’ men and was conversing with them, pointing and gesturing periodically. They were obviously strategizing. General Armstrong had gifted him the five men in question, when she had awarded him his double promotion (an unheard of feat which had apparently involved arguing Fuhrer Grumman into submission) and transferred his command. It had been a parting gift, and a mystery which the men had pondered during their voyage. She was a noted soldier-horder and giving away her men, especially, any five of Miles’ own choosing was beyond unheard of. Avia had been transferred to Briggs right before they shipped out and Armstrong had tacked him onto the gift so quickly, it was obvious he was a less than desirable soldier.

Scar ignored them both and made his way up to the men who stopped and looked at him, uncertainly.

“We’re just debating where to set up our encampment.” Miles explained civilly, in no way bothered by Scar’s presence. His men relaxed. “Where do you think the Ishvalans would like to have their temporary shelters?” Scar pointed out a few locations and they settled on placing the military base on the outskirts of the old city.

They wiled away the hours in the blazing sun, sweating and straining to clear a place to camp that very night, and communication was limited to grunts and points. At last, the sun set and cool started to fall. Scar pitched his tent beside Miles’ and marveled at the lightweight, durable structure. Armstrong had seen to it that he was outfitted with military-grade everything for his journey. Soon, they will trade out these small, military grade tents for Ishvalan-style domicile-sized ones, but he admired the craftsmanship, all the same. He set to work, lighting a campfire and heating his rations just outside the door to his tent.

“Mind if we join you, Sir?” Sgt. Roach approached, Sgt. Murray behind him. Scar nodded, knowing these men better than any of the others, from his journey with Winry Rockbell. They took to his lack of name and authoritative presence easily enough, and treated him with the same casual respect they treat their fellow soldiers; They think of him as one of them.

“I’m glad the night’s going to be cold.” Murray speared a chunk of canned meat and held it over the small flame. “I sleep better in the cold.”

“Same.” Roach agreed. Scar wondered how the Briggs’ men felt so far from their icy fortress. He didn’t ask.

“Sir!” The soldiers started to scramble to their feet as Miles approached. He waved them to sit down, and lowered himself beside Murray. Scar realized he was about to be surrounded by Briggs’ men.

“This is not beef.” Miles declared as he pried open his tin. “What is this?”

“Best not to think about it, Sir.” Murray grinned. Scar shook his head slightly; he had fast learned that Miles is a picky eater, comparatively. Grumbling, Miles ate.

“Sir, I’ve managed to get the radio connected.” Warrant Officer Fuery arrived, looking exhausted. “What message would you like to send?”

Scar didn’t listen to Miles’ response, studying the Warrant Officer instead. He didn’t look like much, but he was combat-tested. Scar gathered they were lucky to have him; Mustang had been hesitant to give him up, trying to persuade Miles to chose Briggs’ main radio man, Karley, as one of his five. Miles had refused. Actually looked the superior officer in the eye and refused. _“He stays with the Queen.”_ Miles’ words, meaningless to Scar, had halted Mustang in his tracks and he had reluctantly assigned Fuery to the Ishval Project.

Scar finished the rest of his food and slipped into the privacy of his tent. Just in time, he thought, as he heard the three other Briggs’ men arrive and they became caught up in tales and memories.

\---

_“You have got to be kidding me.” Scar glared at the papers General Armstrong had handed him._

_“You said to call you whatever I want.”_

_“_ Call _me whatever you want.” He snarled. “Not change my entire identity!”_

_“You had no identity to change,” she snorted. “I gave you a completely new one."_

_"By making me the supposed-illegitimate son of a gardener?! You had no right-!"_

_"Most people would be flattered to be adopted by the Armstrong family.”_

_He glared at the offending papers. “You forged your parents’ signatures!”_

_“That’s true,” Miles murmured from behind Armstrong, “I watched you do it.” The general shot him a dark look._

_“You’re now Dimitri Carlisle Armstrong. Get over it.” She scrawled her signature on a document, and grabbed another sheet. She glanced up a moment later. “You’re still here? Dismissed.”_

_Miles escorted him out. “What is she thinking?!” Scar demanded, waving the forms at him; a whole history--one composed entirely of lies--that was somehow supposed to be his second chance._

_The soldier shrugged. “She never does anything without a plan.” He paused at the door to the room Scar had been staying in. “Do you need anything before I lock you in?”_

_“Just don’t tell anyone about this.”_

_“Whatever you say, Dimitri.”_

_“Miles.” He hissed in warning._

_The other man only laughed._

\---

Miles had concerns of his own, and stared at the wall of his tent in silence, knowing sleep was far away. Scar had reacted badly enough to the revelation Olivier had fabricated an identity for him, he didn’t even want to think about how he’d react to what else she had planned.

He smiled a little to himself at the thought of his wife. It had only been a few weeks, but he already misses her more than he imagined possible. He reached into his pack and withdrew a letter read and reread so many times the crease had become soft and the edge was tattered. He’d been meant to destroy it, and he couldn’t read it in the dark, but just holding it--something real and solid and marked by Olivier--brought him some modicum of comfort. He had memorized it, and imagined Olivier was speaking to him.

_“By the time you find this letter I’ll be in Briggs and you’ll be on your way to Ishval. You may consider me foolish, but I found it necessary to avoid speaking to you face to face. I have had many accomplishments, many successes, in my career but none have made me as proud as you; Everything you have endured, and all the work you’ve done, you have surpassed every limitation and overcome every obstacle._

_“Perhaps, the greatest thing you have achieved cannot be measured in stars and ribbons, but by the depth and breadth of my love for you. That sounds so ridiculous! I’m blushing worse than Catherine when she has some foolish schoolgirl crush! Regardless, I have committed to putting pen to paper and this is what I mean to say: When I met you I didn’t believe in anything. All I wanted to do was survive. I barely even believed in that; I kept going through the motions and there seemed to be no end in sight. And then you arrived, a hot desert wind, rage and passion intermingling and tearing through my life._

_“How I hated you! And then, I saw something in you. I couldn’t say what, but it sparked curiosity in me. I wanted to know more, I was drawn to you like a moth to a flame. All that was cold and broken in me was thawing and the fissures in my soul began to heal. I was enamored, I’d never felt so much for anyone before. Selfishness took over and I clung to you, like a child clings to their mother. Romantic, I know._

_“And, then, somehow, I began to love you for real. I never thought I was capable of such."_

And then, crossed out so thoroughly Miles had had to take charcoal to it to discern what had been written: _"Sometimes, I still doubt.”_

It didn't matter that he hadn't signed it, he knew her writing as well as he knew his own. He ran a finger over the paper again, and tucked it securely into it’s place in one of the only books he’d brought with him. Sleep seemed as far away as Olivier, herself, was at that moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Please drop a line, let me know what you think!


	2. Omen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I forgot to mention this last chapter, but like in my previous fic, square brackets [these] indicate the character is speaking in Ishvalan. 
> 
> I debated a lot about how to tackle Ishvalan culture/religion and decided on an amalgam culture rather than pulling too heavily from any particular culture. Some things, like Ishvala being a goddess rather than a god, I'm sure I've read in someone else's fic some time ago, but I can't remember at all. If you notice things like that, I'd love to hear where it's from so I can give credit where it's due. 
> 
> Happy reading!

A shrill whistle blast woke Scar before dawn. He crawled, hesitantly, out of his tent to see the soldiers doing the same. Miles, in full-uniform, was standing in the center of the camp with a whistle. “Alright, men! PT! Move it, move it, MOVE IT!”

Scar didn’t know what PT was, so he had to go ask. The Briggs’ men (former Briggs’ men, really, but Scar gathered once a Briggs’ man always a Briggs’ man is the mentality) were easy to spot as they rushed out, and began maneuvers while the Eastern soldiers were still throwing on their uniforms.

“Should I-?” Scar watched the men lining up and dropping in pairs to begin sit-ups.

“Up to you, Civilian.” Miles grinned and turned to the men, shouting again. “My grandmother moves faster than you, you lazy sacks of-”

Rubbing his ringing ears, Scar looked for a partner. Breda waved him over with an easy grin and Scar joined him. One hundred sit-ups, one hundred push-ups, and ten minutes of non-stop running later, Scar felt alive. The Eastern soldiers were complaining, breathlessly, and the Briggs’ men were laughing; Fort life was like non-stop boot camp and they were more than used to starting their days with exertion.

The next several weeks were endlessly repetitive: PT, rubble clearing, campfire suppers, bed, and repeat. Scar didn’t socialize beyond actually working, though he found himself hanging around after suppers and listening to the stories being exchanged. Miles had a head for them, apparently, and it became their best form of entertainment; sprawling in the sand under the stars and listening to him speak.

When he told stories from his childhood, his voice changed, picking up some of the lilt of a displaced Ishvalan accent, and dropping consonants in a way that is decidedly lower class. Scar wondered how many years it took to unlearn that speech pattern, to force it down, and speak in that crisp neutral way that parodied his commander’s high breeding.

Miles noticed him, one evening, hovering on the outskirts, listening. He flashed him a quick, almost mischievous, grin. “I think I’ll tell you all how Ishval came to be, as my grandfather told it.” Scar raised his brows at him, arms crossed. “Once,” he began, “there was a great sea and in the center an island nation known as Xerxes. The people there worshipped the Great Goddess, Ishvala-”

“Wait,” a soldier piped in, incredulous. “Ishvala is a goddess?”

"Didn’t you do your homework?” Breda muttered. “That was in the pamphlet.”

Miles cleared his throat. “Yes, Ishvala is a goddess. May I continue?” The other soldier nodded apologetically.

_“The people of Xerxes fell away from worshipping Ishvala and she grew angry. She donned a human form and came, by night, to her High Priestess, and told her to gather all those who had not yet fallen to profane ways and take them by boat into the sea. When the island was emptied of believers she would raise the sea and cover Xerxes._

_“Her priestess begged and pleaded with her. ‘Please, O, Wondrous Goddess,’ she prayed ‘relent! Lest your people drown!’_

_But Ishvala would not relent. She came again and told the priestess to gather all those who had not yet fallen to profane ways and take them by boat into the sea. “‘Ishvala, please,’ begged the priestess, ‘there is no land. We will drown! Please, relent!’ Ishvala would not. She came a third time and told the priestess to gather all those who had not yet fallen to profane ways and take them by boat into the sea._

_“The priestess did not ask her to relent a third time; Instead, she gathered the people and put them in boats. In her human form Ishvala joined them. When they set sail, however, the priestess remained behind._

_“‘Ishvala!’ The priestess cried, when Ishvala returned to raise the sea, “your people have gone! I alone remained. Please, Creator, spare your people. Allow them to return, save us and this land!’_

_“Ishvala was enraged. She told the priestess she had made a grave mistake. But, she had vowed to cover Xerxes when the last believer left, and one still remained. Instead she drained the sea. She sent the sun to beat on her people, and the land dried up and became a desert. The refugees’ skin turned brown in the sun, and the gold of their hair was bleached away. They began to weep, and wept so long and hard that their golden eyes ran out of tears and poured forth blood instead._

_“Then Ishvala looked down and saw how her people suffered. She came to them and touched the ground where they gathered. A spring came up from beneath and gave them water there. Trees grew up and gave food and shelter for her people. She left their eyes red, and told them it was her mark; they would call themselves Ishvalans from that day onward._

_“She had vowed not to cover Xerxes while even one believer remained, and so the city remained until the priestess died. On the day of her death, Ishvala moved to destroy the entire nation and realized how the priestess had tricked her. She vowed that she would never again have a priestess--they were too much like her, and much too clever. She ordered her people to rise up and slay the women who had been serving her. The priestesses saw how this pained the people and made for themselves poisons to drink. Ishvala appointed priests in their places and they buried their predecessors in the courtyard of their new temple._

_“Ishvala was greatly sorry when she saw what she had done. She raised the spirits of the priestesses and set them as stars in the sky to look out for her people. ‘Never again,’ she told her people, ‘will I command such a thing. No more will killing be in my name.’ She fell silent, and never again visited her people in an earthly form. “Where the priestesses were buried, dahlia flowers grew up to remind them of her blessings, and they called the place Daliha--the blessed flower. It was the first region of Ishval._

_“After that they grew into several sectors. Gunja was named for the first Priest of Ishval, and was endowed with a beautiful library. All great Ishvalan scholars come from there. Next came Kanda, which often quarreled with Gunja, named for a sheep-herder-”_

Scar’s mouth fell open for a moment. Until then, Miles had been quoting with near-perfect accuracy from the Great Text. But, Kanda, his home, was named for a weaver, a purveyor of fine craftsmanship, which Miles ought to know. Reducing that down to a sheep-herder was a very spiteful, very Gunjan, thing to do. Then Scar caught the twitch of his lip and it all came together. He snarled the most biting thing he could think of.

“Why, you Gunjan guttersnipe!” At the look that flickered across the soldier’s face he wondered if that was taking it a bit too far. Miles had not been noticeably ashamed of his lowly upbringing, but, then, no one in Ishval has had room to judge after the war.

Miles stared at him a moment then burst out laughing. He laughed so hard he tipped off the crate he’d been using as a seat and tumbled into the sand. “Of all the the things I’ve been called-!” He sat up, catching his breath. _“Really?!”_

Scar stiffened, embarrassed. “As you said, Kanda and Gunja often quarreled.”

“I’m only telling it as my grandfather told it to me!” Miles snickered. Scar huffed and fell silent. When Miles recovered, he finished his tale.

\---

Finally, a welcome change came in the form of the Ishvalan refugees, themselves. The camp was a flurry of activity. Scar helped take the census. It was a slow, disheartening process, naming and numbering the travelers, but it needed to be done. He spoke to them in Ishvalan, heard their complaints, and did his best to soothe their fears. He forced Miles to remove his goggles, and this quieted their fears better than his words could have.

A First Lieutenant Ross paced the lines with fresh water and food. She had traveled the desert all the way to Xing and back, Scar was told, and understood the pain and discomfort his people suffered, forced to wait in the heat.

Amestrian soldiers were carefully helping the Ishvalans set up their tents, showing them the way to the well, and generally helping them settle. They were doing their best, Miles had drilled respect and etiquette into their heads, but tensions were high. For many, the blue uniforms signified death and destruction, and they were afraid. Scar understood, and he knew he and Miles would have to step carefully.

“[It’s not right!]” Scar heard an angry voice from the line he was registering. He craned his neck and spied a boy of twelve or so.

“[Hush.]” A woman’s voice answered. “[Still yourself, cousin.]”

“[They shouldn’t make you stand!]” The boy protested. Scar signaled Breda to keep working without him and headed down the line.

“[I said, hush!]” The woman countered, wearily. Scar saw her for the first time; She was, he estimated, around Miles’ age (admittedly, he thought of Miles as several years younger than himself, as a matter of personality, but he had no idea how old he was), and was leaning heavily on a crutch. Scar cursed himself (and Miles) silently for not thinking of this.

“[Please, come up to the front.]” He ushered her forward and she eyed him, uncertainly. He turned to address the caravan, broadly. “[If you are unable to walk or stand, elderly, or ill, please be seated and wave! I will send soldiers to come help you.]” Murmurs rippled through the caravan. Scar called for more men to come and help, and they did. He turned back to the woman and her impatient cousin. “If you’ll give me your name and region of origin, I’ll have you shown to a tent-site.”

“Tava.” She drew herself up. “Tava Lowe from the Daliha region. This is my cousin, Ilya.”

“Lowe?” Scar breathed. She inclined her head in a gracious nod. Scar hastened to take her to Roach who had just returned from showing a small family to a tent-site.

“These are the Lowes,” he told him, and Roach’s face registered nothing. “Please show them to a good place by the well.” He thought Tava would protest, but he gave her no chance. “[Ishvala be with you, Miss Lowe.]”

He bowed to her, and Roach set off. Ilya followed, and then Tava. Watching her, Scar saw the reason for the crutch. She swung her right foot, and beneath her long skirt, no left joined it. She switched to the crutch, and moved with more ease than Scar would have imagined possible. He realized she had probably been without a left leg for some time.

“That was the former Grand Cleric’s daughter.” Scar told Miles, interrupting his careful mapping of tent-sites.

“Cleric Lowe?” Miles paused, hand poised to push a pin into a newly-occupied spot.

“The very same.”

“I was under the impression clerics aren’t allowed to have families.”

“They aren’t allowed to marry.” At Miles’ raised brows, he hastened to clarify. “Priests are encouraged to adopt orphaned children and raise them as their own, in the temple. Miss Lowe was raised a Temple Child; Cleric Lowe’s spiritual daughter as it were.”

“Ah.”

“Her presence is a good omen, my brother.” Scar insisted. “A sign of good faith.”

“I’m sure she will be excellent for morale.” Miles returned to pinning his hand-drawn map. “Thank you for telling me.” Scar felt like a dismissed soldier, and somewhat unsettled, returned to registering his kinspeople.

By the time the newcomers were settled, the base had transformed from a small military outpost to a city of tents. Scar was eager to have one of the tall, wood-and-cloth _calymma_ tents that were tall enough to stand in, but he had allied himself with the Amestrian military and resolved to suffer in his tiny aluminum-and-canvas tent as long as they did.

“Master!” Scar spotted the old priest and hastened to his side. He was greeted by a warm smile and a firm, fatherly, hug.

“And what should I call you these days?”

“Scar.” He had even begun to think of himself this way. He certainly didn’t want to go by Dimitri. Master bowed his head, and looked troubled, but made no remark.

“I am grateful to see you well, Scar.”

“Did you know Grand Cleric Logue Lowe still has a living daughter?”

“Tava?” Master nods. “Yes, she took refuge in the desert for some time and then went South. Our paths have crossed a few times. I was most glad to see she answered the call to return to our homeland.”

“A good omen.”

“Indeed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I love and cherish comments! :) I'm especially interested in hearing how people feel about splitting perspectives and the flashbacks. Good? Bad? For the love of all things beautiful, please stop writing? 
> 
> I promise I'm going somewhere with just about everything. 
> 
> (And, yes, Miles told that whole story just to annoy Scar at the very end--and so I could casually insert some cultural backdrop.)


	3. Jamaa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for my lovely readers.
> 
> Please enjoy!

It wasn’t long before Scar found himself in Master’s tent surrounded by clerics. It didn’t take a genius to work out what they wanted.

“I’ve left the priesthood for good, Master.” He told him, glancing at the exit which was blocked by a large man he vaguely recognized as Cleric Iroh.

“You’ve made your stance clear.” Master nodded, with a sigh.

“So why am I here?” He crossed his arms and stared around at the priests. He was surprised to notice two elderly priests, Cleric Evett and Cleric Markel, both originally from Daliha. He wondered why neither of them had been next in the line of succession when Cleric Lowe had been murdered.

“We’d simply like to talk to you.” Master explained, with a kind smile and a wave of his hand. “Please, sit.” Scar lowered himself onto one of the cushions on the floor, uncertainly. “As you are aware you have a unique position in this camp.”

“I do.” Scar acknowledged when he realized the priest wasn’t going to go on.

“You have unique insights from both sides, then.”

“Not as much as Colonel Miles.” Scar frowned. Several incomprehensible glances were shared in the following silence.

“Do you trust him?” Master asked after a long moment.

He hesitated only a moment, before replying. “Yes.” He might not have understood the Colonel, but he trusted him and his intentions. He knew he was one of few who did; The Colonel was shrouded in suspicion for his red eyes and blue uniform.

“If that ever changes, let us know?” It was phrased as a question, but didn’t quite seem to be.

“Yes, Master.” Scar bowed his head, respectfully. “Are we through?”

“One more thing.” The priest put a hand on his head gently. “[Ishvala’s blessing go with you, my son.]”

Scar left without a word. No longer a priest, no longer truly named, he felt the blessing overly kind.

\---

Weeks passed and new caravans arrived nearly daily. They were smaller than that first wave--a few families at a time--but they were a welcome sight all the same. A sense of order began to form in the city of tents. A massive tent, pitched in the center of the camp, became a meeting hall and a smaller one became a sort of commissary. Scar was relieved when Miles announced the soldiers would soon be able to switch to _calymma_.

 _Calymma_ , it was explained to the soldiers, had been used since the time of the _deselo_. Originally, they were truly shelters for the former-Xexerians. They had to be designed to withstand the intense winds and blazing sun. After the _deselo_ , they were used once a year in commemorative festivals, and devout Ishvalans, priests in particular, were extremely skilled at assembling the structures. It was disheartening to have to use them again, and many of the slum tents had been less than ideal, but there was a hopefulness in the building of the new ones in Daliha.

A sudden sandstorm moved the schedule up. Their tiny aluminum tent frames crumpled and the sheer force of the sand blasts ripped the canvas to shreds. When the dust settled, Miles surveyed the camp and ushered the displaced soldiers into the meeting tent. They made tidy lines of bedrolls and tried to sleep. Before long, quiet whispering filled the tent as the soldiers tossed and turned.

“I wish my Nellie was here.” One of the soldiers sighed, morosely.

“Yeah, I miss my girl, Lillian. She’s so beautiful, man-”

Several others piped in, wistfully exchanging stories and bemoaning their fates. Miles sighed and Scar expected him to tell the soldiers to quiet down. He didn’t, though, only stared up at the cloth ceiling, apparently transfixed.

“Do you miss her?” Scar asked, quietly, after a long minute of listening to the others reminisce.

“Sorry?”

“Mira. Do you miss her?”

“Of course. I forgot you knew about her.” He apparently didn’t want to say anything else about her, because he asked, “Did you have anyone special?”

“Not like that. I was a priest.”

“You were?” Miles rolled over to stare at him, perhaps a bit offended. “You never told me that.”

“It didn’t seem relevant.”

“Hmm.” Miles, thankfully, didn’t pursue the matter further. Instead, he turned his focus to the chattering soldiers. “Quiet, everyone!”

Scar wondered absently, how different his life would have been if he’d still had family, let alone a wife. He couldn’t imagine how he would feel, willingly leaving that behind for the good of his people. His tired mind turned to what little he knew of Miles’ family.

_“Why are we here?” Scar looked around in the dark, bewildered. When Miles had said “safe house” he’d pictured an abandoned house outside the city (though this house was almost shabby enough to be abandoned), not one in the middle of a grungy, noisy, neighborhood. Let alone one with a light glowing warmly out the front window and smoke curling out the chimney even on a warm night._

_Miles only grinned and opened the front door. Scar entered, scanning his surroundings as he always did. It looked like a simple, worn, home. There was no one in sight. Miles pointed to a rickety staircase and Scar obediently began climbing. Miles turned off the light and followed. At the top he opened the door to a cramped little room with a triple bunkbed on one wall. The other wall had a scratched desk and a few overflowing bookshelves._

_Scar surreptitiously examined the room. There were drawings and photos taped to the walls, and assorted childhood mementos littered the room. It seemed safe enough, so Scar had no complaints._

_Miles woke him early the next morning and ushered him back downstairs. There were three Amestrian women in the kitchen. All three were quite a bit older, though, one appeared to be between the elderly women and Miles in age. Scar frowned in confusion. This was unlike any safe house he had ever used._

_“Well, when Ida said you were bringing a companion I thought she meant Mira.” One of the women at the table, commented, eyeing Scar interestedly._

_“Does Mira know you have a lover?” The other asked, her tone sharply teasing. Her gaze seemed more unkind than the first's._

_“MA!” The woman at the skillet threw the spatula down and whirled, looking mortified._

_“Don’t mind her,” the first woman snorted, “she’s just cranky because she’s old.”_

_“What does that make you?” Retorted the second._

_Scar glared at Miles. “What is this?”_

_“This?” Miles shook his head, a slight grin playing about his lips. “This is a safe house.”_

_“Actually,” the woman at the stove turned the bacon sizzling in the skillet, “this is_ my _house. And, for Ishvala’s sake, Miles, come give me hug. I’ve missed you.”_

_Laughing, Miles crossed the kitchen and embraced her. “I was just here six weeks ago.”_

_“There’s no time limit on a mother’s love.”_

_“This is your home?!” Scar asked at last, bewildered. The three Amestrian women were nothing like any family he had ever known._

_He received a flash of a grin in response. “_ Was _, at any rate.”_

\---

Scar hadn’t made a lot of effort to get to know the soldiers under Miles’ command, but they knew him. He pounded a tent post into the ground, glancing up to check it’s in alignment with the other posts, when one of the soldiers spoke.

“You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“What?” Scar straightened the pole and glanced up at the woman who was preparing to stretch the cloth roof over the posts. He thought she meant making the tents, but that didn’t tally; As a former priest, he is one of the people most familiar with building _calymma_.

“Punish yourself by being one of us.” She shook her dark ponytail out of her face. “You can go be with your people.”

“I’ve allied myself to your people.” Scar reminded her, straightening. “I believe that if I can live among Amestrian soldiers my people can learn to do the same.”

“Lead by example, huh?” She looked ready to say something else, but was interrupted.

“Hey, Catalina!” Breda made his way over, casually. “Havoc called.”

“And?” She scowled at him.

“He said to thank you for the book. It really helped, apparently.”

Catalina’s scowl deepened. “It was Ross’ idea.”

“Really?” Breda looked surprised, and then smiled. “Well, I know he wanted to make sure I thanked _you_ , specifically.”

“Right.” Catalina swiped at the sweat on her brow. “You wanna help with this? Ross was supposed to but she had a-” anger flashed across her face “personal call.”

“Her boyfriend called, I think.” Breda shrugged. “What do you need?” Neither he nor Scar knew how to react when Catalina flung the cloth at him and stormed off. “Er.” Breda picked the cloth up and shook it. “I think it’s time for her break. Get out of the heat, you know?” Scar nodded and they began roofing.

Breda chattered cheerfully about his rations and the spices Ishvalans used, or about variations to local folklore he’d heard, or any number of things he was curious about. He had a lot of information tucked into his brain, but he had a number of questions. His curiosity seemed genuine, and his desire was to help with the rebuilding, so Scar tolerated his conversation and occasionally humored him with an answer.

“So, I’ve heard there’s a significance to these tents.” Breda remarked, face taut with concentration.

Scar glanced at him. “That’s true. They were originally designed during the _deselo_. Since then they’ve come to be used for religious festivals.”

“ _Calymma_ means protection, right?”

“Sort of.” Breda looked at him expectantly, so he straightened and stepped back, pointing “The center pole, is the _imani_ or faith pole; it is the basis of the tent. As long as it stands straight so will the rest of the tent. If it leans or collapses the whole thing falls. The four corners are _jamaa_ and _jamii_ \--family and community--and _utii_ and _uvii_ : obedience and endurance. You need all of them to survive.”

“There wasn’t any of that in the pamphlet.”

“No.” Scar acknowledged. “There wouldn’t be. It’s never written down, always passed from parent to child.”

“Huh.” Breda looked impressed for a minute. There was a look on his face, like there was a question he wanted to ask, but decided against. He grinned. “Does that make me your son?” Scar glared at him and he laughed. “Only kidding, settle down, chief.”

They returned to work and before long the _calymma_ was nearly completed.

“Does the board have a special name?” Breda asked as they began carefully hanging the wooden rectangle above the flaps that would serve as a door.

Scar shook his head. “It’s just for knocking.”

“Knocking?”

“A _calymma_ is a home. You must seek permission to enter.”

“Ah.” Breda nodded, and then indicated the strings of tin bells Scar was winding around the doorframe. “And the bells are-?”

Scar sighed, already past the limit of conversation he usually indulged in. “ _Sali_ represent the blessings of Ishvala.”

Breda, thankfully, only nodded and returned to work without further questions. Scar was lost in thought as he worked almost mechanically. Apart from his brother, he didn’t think about his family often. He loved and missed his parents, of course, but he simply hadn’t had the energy to spend mourning them. There never had been (and Scar suspected, never would be) a woman to whom he would consider marriage. Which left him with some concern about his spiritual _calymma_.

His _imani_ pole was strong, and so were the _utti_ (well, that one had had some difficulty, but he was back on the right path) and _uvii_ , and they were rebuilding _jamii_. But _jamaa_ was often considered the second most important. Who was his family now? With a jolt, he found himself picturing Marcoh and Mei, who were a bit like a father and daughter. He shook his head to banish the thought. More like a distant uncle and little cousin, surely.

\---

Miles was stressed. Try as he might to hide it, Scar could see it in the tense set of his face, and when he removed his glasses there was a darkness in his eyes. Honestly, he thought the man would snap. He debated writing to Mustang and telling him to send the Colonel an aide, but decided the risk of Miles murdering him in his sleep was too high.

Watching him stab moodily at his food one hot afternoon Scar summoned the courage to say something. He opened his mouth, but closed it again when a sudden hush fell over the soldiers gathered in the sweltering mess tent.

A chubby toddler had wandered in, surveying the men with huge red eyes. The soldiers were afraid to touch her, with good reason. Scar resigned himself to escorting the little girl out, but Miles beat him to it.

“[Hello, little one.]” He removed his glasses and knelt before the toddler. “[You look a little lost.]” The girl sucked her fingers and blinked at him. Miles smiled. “[Okay, let’s find your mama.]” He picked her up gently, and rose. He chuckled when she grabbed his ponytail with now-sticky fingers.

Scar stared as the Colonel carries her out of tent, asking in Ishvalan if anyone was missing a toddler. He’d never been fond of children, per se, but it was obvious Miles adored them. He mused as Miles kindly handed the little girl over to a frantic, apologetic, woman.

“Do you have children, Colonel?” He asked, curiously, as the man rejoined him, a string of saliva still on his ponytail.

“No.” Miles shook his head. The saliva dripped onto his shoulder and he wiped it away with a grimace.

Scar hesitated, and then asked. “Is your wife planning to come out to Ishval?”

“No.” Miles’ tone suggested he should drop the subject.

“She’s Amestrian, right?” Scar prodded, anyway.

“Yes.” Miles frowned at him, and Scar knew he was past being able to drop it. “Why?”

“I know you were in bed with the military, so to speak, but it’s awfully cold to hide behind an Amestrian wife, and then throw her aside when it’s convenient to be Ishvalan again.” He shouldn’t have pushed, but he had spent too long fighting for his homeland, for his people, to be at ease with the way the other man hid his eyes, feared his heritage. He seemed, to Scar, torn between being an Amestrian and being an Ishvalan.

“You know not of what you speak.” Miles rose, collecting his tray in one smooth move. “If you’re done insulting me, I’ll be returning to my work.” There was no ire in his tone, and his face was as blank as ever. Watching him leave, Scar felt like an idiot. He wondered if Mei would come, if he wrote and asked her. He was sure the tiny Xing-ese princess could save him from himself. Maybe from Miles, too.

-

“For what it’s worth,” Scar remarked, as he and Miles built a raised cover and pulley for the only well they’d successfully uncovered, “I apologize for my earlier remark about your wife.”

Miles regarded him with one of his infamously unreadable expressions. “We both know that’s not what it was.”

“That’s true.” He wondered what Mei would have advised; he tried not to smile at the image of the little princess yelling at him for his stupidity. “I apologize for implying you are a coward, that you ought to be ashamed of how you survived. I know I have no right, given my past.”

“I was a soldier. You were a serial killer.” Miles barked out a laugh. Scar stared. “For what it’s worth,” it sounded mocking, but Miles’ voice was devoid of malice, “you are not the first to make such accusations. You are, however, the first to apologize, so there’s that in your favor.” He gave Scar a wry grin.

“Are you-?”

“I’ve been on the wrong side of my race my whole life. I’m too Amestrian to be Ishvalan and too Ishvalan to be Amestrian.” Miles turned back to the work at hand. “If I was angry every time someone had a problem with it, I’d have no energy left for anything else.”

“Right.” Scar, at least, could understand that. He had wasted far too much on anger.

\---

That night, Scar settled down to write a letter.

_~~“Dear Mei,~~ _

_~~“Your Highness,~~ _

_“Mei,_

_“The reason that I’m writing to you, is-”_ Is what? I’m having difficulty trying to adjust to life as an ex-serial killer? The last time we spoke you told me I needed to not shut people out? You reminded me what it was like to have family? _“I hope you are well, and that things are settled in Xing. How is your family?”_

Scar glared at the letter, doomed before it had fully begun. Mei had likely already forgotten about the strange murder who she’d blindly followed around the country. She had her own family; surely, she wouldn’t miss the odd little band that they had formed. He crumpled the paper and discarded it.

He debated writing Marcoh, but the man was involved in a project ensuring all of the philosopher’s stone and chimera research was properly shut down. He doubted the military would even pass on a letter to him, wherever he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think!
> 
> ETA: I somehow forgot to include this, but the words I picked for the Ishvalan words are either (slightly modified) Latin or Swahili. There isn't a particular reason; I spent a lot of time looking for words that *felt* right.


	4. Weaving Order

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another chapter. 
> 
> Happy reading!

One slightly cooler than usual afternoon, Scar and Miles walked around _New Ishval_ \--the unofficial name of their tiny tent city. Ishvalan men and women joined the Amestrian soldiers in clearing land every day. They hoped to begin building soon.

“We need a school.” Scar informed Miles, on behalf of the clerics,as they watched a group of school-age children running around. They were responsible for caring for the tents while their parents worked, but they finished their chores quickly and soon turned to mischief, even under the watchful eyes of the elderly Ishvalans who were no longer able to work. 

“Fair enough.” Miles was wearing his goggles, again. Scar wanted to knock them off his face, but he knew it wasn’t fair to demand the man give up the armor he had spent years building. “What do you need to begin?” Their first supply convoy was due to arrive in two weeks, and they had just enough time to make changes.

“Books.” Scar thought back. “Teachers.”

Miles snorted. “I can’t just order one. Havoc’s is good, but not _that_ good.” Scar wondered, not for the first time, why they ordered their supplies through a general store and not through the military supply chain. He didn’t ask, having learned it’s best not to. Not that Miles would have answered, he aired on the side of private.

“Perhaps, some of the elderly would be willing.” Scar countered. “Anyway, slates would be good. Old-fashioned, I know, but we need re-usable materials. Also-”

“Wait.” Miles stopped to study a colorful blanket hanging on a clothesline. Scar raised his brows and waited. Ishvalan weaving was beautiful, but hardly a pressing matter in his mind. “Who makes these?” There were a few dozen of the colorful blankets scattered around.

“Young girls and grandmothers, mostly.” A wry voice answered. “Mostly.” They turned to observe Tava Lowe, seated in front of her tent, partially obscured behind a loom, weaving a blanket of the very kind they had been discussing. “A few useless types make them instead of working.”

“Would you be willing to sell one?” Miles crossed to kneel before her loom and examine her weaving.

“Sure.” Tava blinked at him. “You can have this one when I’m done, if you want.”

“I’m sure there are still some military-issue blankets in the commissary, if you’re cold.” Scar commented. Tava’s lip twitched.

“I’m sure there are.” Miles replied, perfectly poised. “But it’s Ishvalan weaving I’m after.” He negotiated a price, payed Tava half, and continued on his way. Scar followed bemused.

“So, can you get us the slates?” He pressed.

“What? Oh, yes. Of course.”

“Chalk, too.” Scar could see Miles was no longer focused on the school. “More tent-making materials, so we can have a school tent.”

“Right.” Miles pulled a notebook from his pocket and scrawled a shorthand note. “I’ll order those.”

They quickly discovered the military budget didn’t have room for all the school supplies. Scar suggested halving them and having the children share. Miles charged the extra to the Armstrong Family account, instead. When Scar indicated his surprise, Miles flashed him a wry grin, a hand over the radio’s mouthpiece.

“General Armstrong is the Ishval Project’s largest private benefactor.”

Scar hadn’t realized this, but wasn’t all that surprised. She had saved him, saved and sent Miles, and sent five (six if he counted Avia, which no one ever did) of her own Briggs’ Bears, it only made sense she would part as easily with a portion of her family’s fortune. Still, something about the general set him on edge, and he pondered her motivations.

\---

Olivier paced the halls of the empty Armstrong mansion, irritably. She hated Central with its ineptitude, its bureaucracy, and its tangled political webs. The establishment of a new regime, however, had necessitated her recall, _again_. She made her way back to the kitchen and started a fresh pot of coffee and then considered the primary source of her aggravation: a tidy stack of files and several rolled newspapers.

With hands less steady than she would ever admit, she lifted the thick envelope from the top of the stack and moved to unseal it. With a sigh, she lowered it to the counter and unrolled the newspapers instead. She didn’t bother reading the articles, merely skimmed the headlines.

_**Alchemist Killer: Framed?** _

_**The Man Behind the Scar** _

_**Leaked Documents Reveal Anti-Ishvalan Conspiracy** _

Snorting at the the ease with which the press, and thereby, the people could be manipulated, she tossed the papers into the bin and poured herself coffee. Scar would be furious when he caught onto what she was up to, but she'd deal with him when news reached Ishval. She flicked open the most recent report from Dr. Marcoh. There were still a few leads to run into the ground, but so far it seemed they really had found the last of the ghoulish experiments being run by the old command.

Setting that aside, she opened Hawkeye’s unredacted account of the Promised Day and the events leading up to it. A shiver shot down her spine at the description of the inhuman energy radiating from Pride. She’d spoken to Hawkeye once since then and had seen the haunted way she eyed the shadows, as though expecting them to hold malice. She’d awkwardly put a hand on the younger woman’s shoulder and assured her the feeling would fade. Hawkeye had smiled at her in a way reminiscent of another conversation they’d once had, where shivering in an unused storage closet in Briggs, she’d revealed the truth of her father’s research--and its destruction. Olivier had yanked back, horrified, and shouted at the woman. Hawkeye had given her that same smile then; the one that said, simply, _you don’t know what you’re talking about._ And, maybe she had been right, Olivier certainly couldn’t fathom her devotion to Mustang after he’d done that to her. Or how Mustang could have done it, himself.

 _If it had been Miles,_ she’d thought, breathing through clenched teeth, hands tightly fisted. _If it had been me._ Then what? She was no stranger to choosing a painful existence--for herself and others--if it meant survival, if it meant the greater good. Glancing down, she noticed her fists had clenched tightly enough for her knuckles to go white, and when she carefully unfurled them her fingernails left bloody marks on her palms.

Setting aside the file, she returned to the envelope. She glanced over the heading, ensuring the coded phrasing was right; Captain Gloster had penned and sealed the report personally. She skimmed through it, and honed in on the conclusion: “There was no official reason for the existence of the Twelfth Infantry Division, and it was consequently poorly documented. If not for the abrupt and somewhat suspicious disappearance of Colonel Morgan, no records would exist at all. Examination of the location of the original base camp yielded mutilated human remains, though there was no conclusive evidence of alchemical experimentation.” Beneath that, unofficially, Gloster had added a note. “We haven’t tracked the homonculi’s movement sufficiently to verify, but I believe this farce was orchestrated to keep Pride busy until it was time for his role as Selim Bradley, and was nothing more than a diversion.”

Three years of her life, a living hell, nothing more than a diversion? Her vision swam before her eyes and she gripped the counter edge numbly. Buccaneer’s arm, hundreds of graves, the morning she’d all but erased from memory. A diversion? She staggered to the bin she’d tossed the papers in and vomited repeatedly. She slumped to the ground, vision full of blood. When she finally rose to destroy the report, her mug had grown cold as ice.

\---

As much as Scar wanted New Ishval to be paradise, it was not. The soldiers grew weary of toiling in the hot sun, and the medic’s tent overflowed with soldiers who didn’t know how to pace themselves and collapsed by midday. The Ishvalans were, understandably, still nervous around the Amestrians. And, while Scar can’t blame them, there are several who are still extremely angry and cause trouble. Rabble-rousers, Miles called them and orders his men to avoid confrontation.

The heat sapped self-control and one afternoon Scar was startled from his work by angry shouting. One of the rabble-rousers had started a shouting match with a sergeant who couldn’t take it anymore. It came to blows. Scar rushed in and grabs the Ishvalan; Miles grabbed the sergeant and yanked them apart.

“You idiot!” Miles shouted at the sergeant, loud enough for the whole camp to hear. “How could you?!” He let out a string of angry words, which based on the reactions of the men around them, were Drachman curses. He berated the man angrily, and hauled him off to, well, they didn’t have a prison, so Scar had no idea where he was taken.

Looking down at the young man he was still holding, Scar noted a sly pleased grin. “[Don’t think you’re getting away with this.]” He hissed. “[We need the Amestrians.]” He dragged the young man (whose name he later learned, was Altan) to see Master. The Cleric could handle discipline, for all he cared.

He caught up to Miles in the military sector of the camp. The Colonel was seated on a crate, head in his hands. His head snapped up as Scar approached, and a blank mask slipped into place over the raw anger and hurt.

“Is the boy alright?”

“He’s a man.” Scar seated himself on a crate opposite Miles. “Young and hot-headed, but a man nonetheless.”

“I guess we can’t blame him.” Miles gave him a slight smirk. “We were once much the same.”

“You were?” Scar was surprised, even though he thought he shouldn’t be. “You’re pretty level-headed.” The rage moments before was the first true emotion he had seen in the other man.

“I haven’t always been.” Miles’ cryptic response was all the answer he got. “Back to work, I think.”

Later, Scar sought Miles out to meet with the clerics. The fight had raised questions that needed answering. Unable to locate him in the main camp, he tried the radio “room” which was really just the back of a truck.

“This is a disaster.” He stopped, one hand on the handle of the door, and listened to Miles speaking. “I-” the Colonel took a shuddering breath. “I can’t do this. I’m too...ignorant.” There was a pause and Scar could tell the man was listening. “The military wants things one way, the Ishvalans-” another pause, “my fellow Ishvalans,” he amended, “want it another. I can’t balance it all.” Scar wondered if he should leave, but his curiosity won out.

“I know, I know.” Miles continued, sighing. “Scar thinks I’m an idiot.” (He didn’t, and was surprised that Miles thought he did.) A weary chuckle. “Thanks. I doubt it’ll come to that.” There was a longer silence, and Scar pondered who Miles was speaking with. “No, everything’s fine for now. We need to start building for real. It would be easier with- Okay. I won’t say his name. Or his. It would be easier with alchemists, but they’re not ready.” (That was true. Many of the Ishvalan refugees were not prepared to be face to face with the soldiers who destroyed their lives, which was why Mustang was overseeing from afar.) Scar was just debating coming back later when Miles said, “Alright, I need to go. Mustang wants six more pages of report, and-” He was interrupted, presumably, by whomever he was speaking to. “I understand. Be safe.” Scar waited a minute, heard Miles sigh once more, and waited for a minute before he knocked.

“Scar.” He smiled warmly. “What can I do for you?” There was no trace of the weariness from his previous conversation in the man’s pleasant greeting.

“The clerics have requested an audience with you.” Scar informed him. Miles’ eyebrows rose. “I think you’d better come.” He lead him to the meeting tent where the clerics were waiting.

“Gentlemen.” Miles removed his goggles and stood before the group. “May I ask why you have called this meeting?”

“We need to discuss the altercation between young Altan and your sergeant.” Master replied. The other priests nodded their agreement.

“I’ve already arranged to have the sergeant sent west, with the convoy.” Miles replied. “He will face a court-martial. What they decide is beyond my control, but he will at least be removed from service, if not jailed.”

“So, this is how we are to deal with trouble?” Cleric Evett scowled.

“I’m sorry, I don’t follow.”

“Amestrian justice.” The cleric clarified.

“For Amestrian soldiers, yes.” Miles, too, frowned. “It is not unheard of for soldiers to face punishment from local authorities when they commit infractions, but New Ishval has yet to set up any kind of court system or law.”

“That is precisely the point.” Master spoke, still kind, yet firm. “Will we be permitted to establish our laws?”

“As long as they don’t contradict the laws of the Nation of Amestris, yes.” Miles regarded the men, thoughtfully. “I take it this is something you would like to do sooner than later?”

“Yes.” The men all nodded again. “We have agreed we would like to re-establish the old laws. Our system of government is based in the teachings of Ishvala.”

“Ah.” Miles took a moment to choose his words carefully. “And for those who do not believe in Ishvala-?”

“There is no compulsion to believe.” Master smiled. “In fact, the clerics are not the sole deciders of the law. We would need to hold an election to appoint voices for the people.”

“If you will draft a written proposal, I will send it to my commander.” Miles inclined his head, politely. “With his approval, I will be glad to help you move forward with establishing a proper government here in New Ishval.” The clerics bowed their heads in response and departed, murmuring to each other.

“Tell me, Scar.” Miles turned to him. “How would Ishvalan law see my sergeant punished?”

“It would be in keeping with his crime.” Scar thought back to his days in the priesthood. “It would depend on who struck first, but it _could_ be a flogging.”

“That’s what I thought.” Miles intoned grimly. “I’m going to let Mustang sort that one out.” He left without giving Scar a chance to reply.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> Reviews are always cherished!


	5. Questions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you all! 
> 
> I think I should rename this story "Miles is cranky and Scar doesn't understand anything". Scar is seriously hard for me to write. 
> 
> Also, the lack of Liv/Miles is stressing me out. I wrote a little fluff piece, that I just need to edit and will post soon. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Scar really wasn’t sure how he was roped into dining with the clerics, _again_ , but Master probably had something to do with it. Probably. With a resigned sigh, he sipped the mug of tea set before him and spluttered a surprised cough when the taste of a popular Ishvalan spiced wine hit his tongue. He glared suspiciously at the spiked tea and then met the eye of a younger cleric, Xander(? Sander? Scar couldn’t recall) who smirked into his own mug.

“Are you alright, Scar?” Master asked, pausing in his ladling to survey him.

“Quite alright.” Scar glanced back at his mug, skeptically. It wasn’t as though wine was frowned on in Ishval, but he was still surprised to be served it by clerics.

“We’re working on our proposal for Colonel Miles’ commander, Mustang.” Master told him when all the soup and bread was served. “I hoped to be able to discuss it with you.”

“I still say we should keep the old ways.” Evett interjected, before Scar could agree (or disagree) to helping them. “None of this modern softness.”

“I disagree, Cleric.” Markel countered calmly. “I think we’ve seen, in our camps, how far kindness and forgiveness can go.”

“Bah.” Evett rapped the table. “A solid beating would knock all the nonsense out of that Altan lad _and_ the good sergeant.”

“On the contrary,” Cleric Iroh, though younger than both, was respected in his own right. “I think it would only fuel his anger. Remember the Ishvalan Purist Movement?” Several heads nodded and a low murmur circled the table.

Scar clenched his fist on his mug of tea. As a priest, he had never condoned the Movement, but he had sympathized. Something he regretted almost as much as his killing of the alchemists. It had started innocently enough--protests, arguments in the temple squares--and then spiraled into rioting and outright murder. The first time a “traitor” had had his _cingul_ slashed off his chest Scar had felt they were right and he didn’t deserve to wear the sacred garment. But, then copycat attacks sprung up throughout the province and it hadn’t taken long before the wearers themselves were being slashed open, living with horrible scars if they were fortunate, and if they were not--with a grimace Scar refocused on the conversation.

“The old ways were good enough for Cleric Lowe!” Evett pointed a gnarled finger at a particularly uncomfortable looking young cleric.

“Even he was relenting in the end, my brother.” Master’s voice was level, but steely. “That’s why I was his successor.”

“Bah!” Evett crossed his arms and scowled imperiously around at them.

The conversation took a deliberate shift to pleasanter things like who the people might want elect as their representatives, taxes, the new school, and what colors would be used in the temple when it was completed. Scar zoned out again, picking at his food in stony silence.

\---

It took Scar longer than he cared to admit to work it out, but one sweltering afternoon the nagging thought that Miles reminded him of someone pressed to the forefront of his mind. Stopping to get a drink of water, Scar surveyed the other man and pondered. Miles caught his gaze and flashed him a swift grin, and a memory surfaced so suddenly Scar nearly dropped his canteen.

_It was their first time seeing snow. He and Somi had pressed their faces eagerly to the frosty train window and stared at the sparkling white expanse. Their mother had laughed and ushered them off the train, and then laughed even harder when they had yelped in surprise at the sheer cold of it._

_Somi had eagerly scooped up a handful of snow and tossed it at him. Scar (though he had gone by another name then) had retaliated and it had swiftly devolved into a brotherly scuffle. Somi had called a truce when Scar tackled him to the ground outside the train station._

_“Hmm, brother.” Somi held up a handful of snow thoughtfully. “When snow melts what does it become?”_

_Scar had thought his brother had lost his mind. “Water, you idiot.” He replied, shaking his head. “Did your brain freeze or something?”_

_“No.” Somi dropped his handful of snow and blew on his cold fingers. A grin lit his face. “It becomes spring.”_

_“Er.” They hadn’t had seasons in Ishval really, so spring was as odd to Scar as snow. “If you say so, brother.”_

“Miles.” Scar felt stupid even considering asking, but curiosity overwhelmed him. “When snow melts, what does it become?”

He expected the Colonel to snort, or maybe even blink bewilderedly, but instead he looked thoughtful. “Spring, I suppose. Why?”

“Just curious.” Scar returned to his work, deep in thought. _Ishvala,_ he thought, _if Miles is some kind of replacement for Somi…_ He didn’t even know how to finish the sentiment. _Perhaps,_ a little voice murmured in his head, _your_ jamaa _isn’t as absent as you thought._

\---

“Colonel Miles. Master Scar.” Tava Lowe approached them one afternoon as they labored in the hot sun. She adjusted the scarf over her hair, and straightened the plaited braid hanging over her shoulder, as she waited for acknowledgment.

“Yes, Miss Lowe?” Miles straightened and wiped sweat from his brow. “What can we do for you?”

“I’ve come to extend an invitation.” Scar blinked in surprise. “I’ve finished your blanket, and I’d be honored if you and Scar would dine with me tonight.”

“Er-” Miles glanced at him, and Scar realized he was looking for help. Miles might have been trained in Ishvalan customs, but he hadn’t ever truly lived the Ishvalan life. He didn’t always know what would be considered acceptable, and what would not.

“We would be honored, Miss Lowe.” He offered for the both of them.

“Then I look forward to it.” She inclined her head and shoulders in the closest approximation of the customary bow she could manage with her crutch. Miles and Scar bowed in response and watched her leave.

“So.” Miles eyed him oddly. “Dinner with Tava Lowe. What can go wrong?” He was ignored.

-

Scar glanced around Tava’s tent as subtly as he could when she pulled back the door flap to let them in. It was tidy and sparse; two bunks along the far back wall, a small, low, table, a wash basin in the corner, and one thick hand-woven rug made up the furniture.

“Will your cousin be joining us?” Miles asked politely, as he settled himself on a cushion by the table.

“No.” Tava lowered herself slowly, leaning her crutch on the low table. “He asked to dine with friends tonight. Which enables us adults to, ah, speak.” Scar glanced at Miles as Tava began to ladle out a thick stew. Miles face showed a flicker of apprehension but he squashed it quickly. “Have I heard correctly, Master Scar, that you were once a priest of Ishvala?”

“Yes.” Scar scowled.

“But you abandoned the priesthood during the war?”

“It’s more complicated than that, but yes.”

She arched a severe brow. “To become a serial killer?”

“Again, it's more complicated, but yes. Where is this going, Miss Lowe?”

“Nowhere in particular.” She smiled gently, cheek dimpling pleasantly, as she handed him his stew. “I just like to be sure about the truth behind a rumor. I apologize if I’ve caused offense.”

Miles coughed something that sounds like “if”. Scar kneed his leg under the table and received an overly innocent look in response.

“So, Colonel Miles.” Miles’ face fell as Tava turned to him. “Before you came to Ishval you were in the North?”

“That’s correct. I was stationed at Fort Briggs on the Northern border.”

“That’s not where you grew up, though?”

“Also correct. I grew up in the, ah, slums of East City.”

She tilted her head, thoughtfully. “Do you still have family there?”

“Yes.” Miles sipped his stew. Scar kneed him again. “I'm the only one who is _scoperto_ though.” Miles turned and mouthed “what?” at him.

“Oh, I’m sorry, I’m talking away while you’re waiting to start your meal!" Tava smiled apologetically. "Master Scar, would you honor us by asking Ishvala to bless our meal?”

Scar ignored Miles’ hasty apology and murmured a quick prayer. Miles waited for Scar to start before he began eating again.

“Is there anything in particular troubling you, Miss Lowe?” Miles asked, quite politely, when the silence stretched on long enough to become uncomfortable.

“Perhaps.” She nodded her head, thoughtfully. “But nothing pressing at the moment.”

“Ah.”

The silence grew awkward again. There was a loud rap on the doorboard, and the bells hung over it jingled merrily. Tava called for the guest to enter and Fuery peered in cautiously. He had a call in for Miles. Scar watched, feeling a bit abandoned, as Miles, looking relieved, excused himself and followed the soldier across the camp.

“Being that you were a priest-” Tava considered her words carefully, “did you ever adopt an orphan child?”

“No.” Scar shook his head quickly. “If I had, I would not have abandoned them!” He probably shouldn’t have been offended, but he was. “I never had the temperament for children, my Master suggested waiting until I was more established as a priest, and in better control of my impulsive temper.”

“A wise man.” Tava smiled as she sipped her glass of water. “Ah, I’ve forgotten the flat bread! How are you supposed to clean your bowl?”

She started to rise, but Scar beat her to it. “I’ll fetch it, if you just tell me where.” She pointed calmly toward the stove just outside the tent. Scar hastened to retrieve the bread, nearly burning himself in the process. Taking a deep breath, he returned to the table.

“I could have gotten it, you know.” She regarded him oddly, dark eyes narrowed.

“It just seemed the polite thing to do.” He handed her the bread, apologetically, though he was unsure what he had done wrong.

“Of course.” Tava tore off a chunk of bread and dips it in her bowl of stew. “You must think me quite rude. Dragging you down here and asking so many impertinent questions.” he smiled ruefully. “Try as he might, my father never could instill that sense of meekness a Temple Girl ought to have.”

“Not at all.” Scar had known quite a few Temple Children in his day, and they had all, almost invariably, felt heavy-pressed to meet a level of perfection even the priests could not claim. It had been one of the many reasons he had been hesitant to take that step in his priestly journey. Spiritual or not, he had never wanted to force that burden onto a child of his. The practice of adopting Temple Children was well meant, and largely well-handled, but it was prone to certain pitfalls--the veritable servitude of some priest’s charges being one. He gave Tava wry look. “I’ll admit, I struggle to envision you cooking for the clerics, lighting the sacred candles, sweeping the sacred floors, and-”

She cut him off with a jolting laugh. “Not everything in a temple is sacred, Master Scar!” She sounded deeply amused. “I’ll tell you we used the same brooms in the unsacred kitchen as we did in the main temple!”

“How rebellious of you.” Scar offered her a small smile, more comfortable with the heat off him.

“Were there many Temple Children in your temple, Master Scar?”

“A few.” Scar dipped his bread into his stew. “We were a fairly poor province, and while there were orphans aplenty, resources in the temple could be tight.”

“Hmm.” She looked thoughtful. “Are there many former Temple Children in the camp?”

“I haven’t looked into it.” Scar admitted. “There must be some.”

“If you do find any, please send them my way. I have a certain inclination toward helping my cousins.”

“Of course.” He scraped the last bit of stew with his bread and devoured it. “Thank you for this excellent meal, Miss Lowe.”

“The pleasure is mine.” They bowed their heads respectfully, and Scar departed more bewildered than ever.

\---

The supply convoy came a few days later. Scar unloaded his school supplies with the help of several young clerics, who had been roped into teaching as “training”, and the only elderly Ishvalan who had agreed to help him, a good-humored old woman named Omi.

“You found more teachers, then?” Miles grinned at him, waiting patiently for the mail call that had the soldiers so excited. Honestly, the supply convoy was often the most exciting thing to happen in _New Ishval_. Food, supplies, letters, books, nearly everything both the Ishvalans and the soldiers could want all in one place.

“Yes.” Scar indicated the woman who is inspecting the books carefully. “Omi has a lot of experience with children. She offered to teach the little ones, and several of the young clerics have agreed to teach the older children.”

“You know, Young Man,” Omi refused to call Scar by the name he was using. (“A scar is a feature, not a name. Should I go by Wrinkles?”) “It’s quite rude to talk about someone behind their back, when they can still hear you.”

“My apologies, Ma’am.” Scar found her slightly intimidating, even though she was quite good-natured. “Have you met Colonel Miles?”

“Not yet.” Omi leaned on a cane as she moved toward them, her face both kind and somehow stern.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ma’am.” Miles extended a hand, politely. Omi shook it looking amused.

“Just call me Omi, dear. All you young ones should. Ma’am makes me feel so old.”

“Is Omi not your sacred name?” Miles cocked his head and then blushed. “I’m sorry, that’s a personal question.”

“Quite alright.” She smiled and patted his arm. “Omi is a derivative of my sacred name. I began using it when I was a nanny for posh Amestrian families. Back when it was still ‘stylish’ to have Ishvalan help.”

“You were a nanny to Amestrian families?”

“Indeed.”

Miles looked like he wanted to say more, but stopped himself. A frazzled looking man from the convoy shoved a handful of envelopes and a small package at him, effectively ending the conversation.

“I wonder what my mother sent?” Miles muttered the question, as he began to unwrap the package. Scar picked up another box of slates and handed them to Cleric Roe, a short, pudgy, man who had reluctantly agreed to teach a mathematics course.

A sharp gasp from Miles startled them enough to turn around. Miles was holding the wrapping of the package gingerly as though the contents had burned him. On sheer instinct, both Scar and Cleric Roe lunged for the red and black sash that tumbled toward the sandy ground.

Once he was sure the box of jostled slates was securely back in Roe’s arms, and the sash was safe, Scar turned to Miles ready to chide the man. His days in the priesthood were behind him, but a _cingul_ was still sacred.

“What’s wrong with you?” Scar began, “Be careful!” Miles stared blankly at the package he was still holding. “I didn’t even know you had a _cingul_.” He added, confused.

“Scar.” Roe set the slates on the ground, face gentling. “I’m not sure-”

Miles crumpled the paper the sash had come in and tossed it on the ground. Shoving his hand into his pocket, he produced his goggles; With one deft motion they were on his face and the colonel stormed away.

“What just happened?”

“Let’s unload the rest of this and then we can get the Head Cleric.” Roe suggested, taking the _cingul_ gently. “I’ll put this somewhere safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> The question that Somi asks Scar and Scar asks Miles is from Fruits Basket. I only borrowed it. 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! (Unless you hate it as much as I do.)


	6. Worth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for my lovely readers! :)
> 
> Apologies for the brevity, this week has been some kind of rollercoaster ride of insanity.

Unloading the school supplies and setting up the new school tent took a few hours, longer than Scar had anticipated. During the midafternoon break, Tava approached Scar her face set with determination.

“Miss Tava.” Scar greeted politely. “May I help you?”

“Master Scar.” She acknowledged curtly. “I understand you have a shortage of teachers?”

“It’s not really my school-” He began and stopped at the glare directed at him. “I did. The Head Cleric assigned some of the junior Clerics to teach, though.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

“Er.” He had no answer.

“Do you think me incapable, somehow? As a woman, or as a-” She took a deep breath and indicated her crutch.

“Not at all. I merely, um, overlooked you as a candidate.” Scar winced as the words left his mouth. “I mean, because you’re busy supporting your young cousin and I didn’t want to burden you.”

“Teh!” Tava glared for a long moment then turned and marched away, her single leg and crutch leaving a distinctive trail. Flustered, Scar ran a hand through his lengthening hair and wondered how he got himself in these situations.

“Scar?” He turned from his musing to find himself face to face with the Head Cleric.

“Master.” He greeted politely. “What-Oh.” The cleric was holding the sash Scar had rescued from it’s tumble.

“Cleric Roe asked me to aid you in a delicate matter.”

“Aid _me?_ ” Scar frowned. “You’re the priest. What am I supposed to do?”

“I barely know Colonel Miles.” The cleric gave him a pointed look.

“It’s not like I know him better.” Scar muttered. “Fine. Let’s go.” He led the way through the military sector of the camp to Miles’ tent. “Miles!” He threw open the door flap without waiting for a response.

Miles was sprawled on a blanket on the floor, sleeping, which in and of itself was not that unusual. The midday heat necessitated a nap even for many of the Ishvalans. His military jacket and shirt were hanging, neatly, on a rack at the back of tent.

What really struck Scar as he blinked in surprise, were the scars covering the man’s bare chest. He shouldn’t have been surprised--Ishval was filled with scarred people, afterall--but he was. His heart dropped as he noted the long, raised, scar in the center of the Colonel’s sternum.

“Miles!” Scar repeated, feeling more than a bit uncomfortable.

“Wha-?” Miles sat up, blearily rubbing sleep from his eyes. “Grand Cleric!” He leapt to his feet and scrambled to grab his shirt from the rack. His back, it seemed, was equally scarred.

“I apologize for the disturbance.” Master’s voice was calm, almost soothing. “I’ve come to inquire about the _cingul_ you threw on the ground earlier.”

Miles stopped with his shirt halfway over his head, his ponytail jutting out of a sleeve. “What do you want?”

“Is this yours?”

“Yes.”

“Are you aware of the significance?”

_“Yes.”_

“Really?”

“It was given me by my father when I turned five and began to study the Ishvalan way.” Miles squirmed, but whether out of discomfort or simply an effort to get the tangled shirt resituated, Scar didn’t know. “It symbolizes my place as an Ishvalan citizen.”

“Indeed. It’s a sacred mark of belonging to Ishvala.” There was a pause. “Why, then, did you throw it aside so carelessly?”

Miles tugged the shirt back off his head and turned to face them. He extended his hand for the sash and with careful movements wrapped it around his torso. He stopped, and fingered a patched section where the stitching was a stark line; it aligned perfectly with his prominent scar.

“Ah.” The cleric moved toward him, calmly. “Amestrian or Ishvalan?”

“Ishvalan.” Miles untied the sash and held it out. “An extremist.” He paused. “I was on my first break after joining the military. I didn’t think anything of it and when I went to visit my grandfather, I donned my cingul out of respect. I was called a traitor to my own kind and unworthy.”

Scar grimaced. That would have been at the height of the Ishvalan Purist Movement. It wasn’t hard to imagine the quarter-Ishvalan--an Amestrian soldier, no less--being attacked.

“I’m sorry that happened to you.” Master made no move to take the sash back and Miles tossed it onto his bunk and pulled his shirt on, successfully, this time. “I’m impressed you found it possible to forgive and move on.”

Miles shrugged. Scar spoke. “I know how difficult that can be-” he ignored Miles’ dark snort. “To forgive. I’m also impressed.”

“Would you consider beginning to wear it again?”

“I-” Miles shook his head. “That almost got me killed.”

“As have your eyes.” The cleric pressed. With a scowl, Miles retrieved his goggles. “I, and many of our kinspeople, would be honored to see you return to your Ishvalan heritage, my son.”

Miles made a face and then nodded. “I’ll consider it.”

“And you, Scar.” The cleric turned to him. “You’re living up here in the military sector when you should be establishing a tent with your people.” He chuckled at the matching face of annoyance Scar gave him. “You should consider marrying. A nice Ishvalan wife would do you wonders.”

“I don’t deserve that kind of happiness.” Scar scowled. The military tent, the hard labor, the somewhat disastrous attempt at starting a school, were all part of a kind of self-flagellation; A desperate attempt to cleanse himself. He doubted he would ever feel clean of the blood of the alchemists on his hands.

“Perhaps.” Master nodded his head. “Thankfully, we rarely get what we deserve.” He departed, leaving Scar and Miles to consider each other awkwardly.

“Right.” Scar shifted uncomfortably. “I’ll see you later.” Miles only nodded in response.

\---

“Scar!” Cleric Xander caught him as he crossed the camp the next evening. “Just who I was looking for!”

Scar regarded the younger man, suspiciously. “Cleric.”

“Teh! Just call me Xander.”

“Xander, then. What can I do for you?”

“I’m going to Miss Tava’s to help her restring her loom for the new temple rugs." He grinned. "You seem like you’re big and strong.”

“Hmph.”

Xander laughed. “Come on, then.”

Scar followed him to Tava’s tent. A massive loom had been set out in front, waiting for them. Tava smiled when they approached. “Xander, Master Scar. Thank you.”

“Of course.” Xander grinned. “Just tell us what to do.”

They set to work, and it wasn’t difficult, but it certainly necessitated the two of them. Tava murmured directions and occasionally made small talk with Xander. “If you’ll just tighten the weft-” or “did you see the new tea in the commissary?”. When she had to speak to Scar, she was brusque and direct.

When they were finished, Xander accepted the honey pastry she offered and headed off to the Temple with a broad smile and a wave. Scar lingered, uncertainly. “Miss Tava?”

She glanced up at him, having already begun selecting wool for the rug. “You’re still here?”

“Cleric Markel has taken responsibility for the school. If you’d like, I could speak to him about-”

“Teh!” She tossed the skein she’d been considering back into its basket. “You don’t get it at all, do you?”

“I-” He faltered at her furious glare. “I suppose not, no.”

She stared at him a long moment, though some of her anger faded away. “No, I suppose you wouldn’t.” She selected another skein and examined it a moment. “Tell me about your family?”

He frowned, bewildered. “My father was a carpenter.” He said at last.

“You’re Kandan?”

“Yes.” She nodded, and he continued. “My mother was the kindest woman I’ve ever met, and my brother was-” he frowned again, trying to find the words. “Somi was brilliant, but misunderstood.”

She snorted at that. “I never knew my parents. I’ve always wondered if they were dead, or if they’d simply given me to the Temple service.”

Scar cleared his throat, awkward and unsure. “I’m sorry.”

She shrugged and gave the yarn and experimental tug. “There was always work for me to do there. Always. 'Good Tava, sweet Tava, sweep the Temple, Tava. Wash the robes, Tava. Put down that book, Tava. Don’t argue with the novitiate, Tava. Do this Tava, do that, Tava. Don’t think Tava-'” Her face was growing darker with each phrase, and her gently tugging to test the wool gave way to angry yanking and the yarn snapped.

She was thrown off balance and teetered for a moment. Unable to reassert balance on her crutch she fell to the ground with a thump. Her crutch wavered in the air before falling and striking her shoulder. She swore briefly under her breath.

Scar knelt beside her. She glanced at him, her face suddenly flushed and bashful. “Sorry. I didn’t mean-” She began.

He cut her off, gently. “I understand, Miss Tava.” He extended his arm to help her up and they both looked at the tattoos on it. “I truly do.” She nodded and he pulled her up and helped resituate her crutch.

"Sorry." She said again. "I don't know how to be so... _useless._ "

"I sincerely doubt that you're useless, Miss Tava." She shrugged. They stood there a moment, both looking at the other, before Scar cleared his throat. “I need to be going now, Miss Tava.” He bowed. “[Ishvala’s blessing be with you.]”

She nodded and bowed back, keeping a firm grip on her crutch. “[And with you.]”

\---

Miles sat in the back of the radio truck and stared at the equipment before him. It was stiflingly hot, not even a breeze to dispel the midday heat. He wiped at the sweat already beading on his forehead and wondered if it was worth it. He picked up a headset, and began to work through the series of now-familiar frequencies.

“Miles?”

He smiled at the familiar voice. “Hello, Liv.”

“Is something wrong?” Miles scowled. That was always her first question, as though she couldn’t comprehend that he would call her simply to talk. She sighed at the silence. “I’m sorry, it’s just with so many new troops I’m extremely busy. Falman is very efficient, but he isn’t you.”

“Of course.” He twirled the headset cord. “I don’t mean to take up your time.”

“That isn’t what I meant.” She sighed, and Miles could picture her shoulders slumping as some of the tenseness went out of her. “I miss you.”

“I miss you, too.” He swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. “Have you heard from Mustang recently?”

“No.” She sounded immediately suspicious. “Why?”

“I made a request, and he won’t grant it.”

“What is it? I can apply some pressure.”

“I want to go to my grandfather’s house. He insists it’s too dangerous.” Silence. “Liv?”

The radio crackled for a moment. “He-” Olivier spoke hesitantly, a rarity for her. “He might be right.” Miles glared at the receiver. “Don’t be angry, Miles.” He glared harder and remained silent. “The desert is dangerous, _temero_ and jackals alone make a solo journey too risky to be worth it. And then there’s always the threat of anti-Ishvalan militants, or anti-Amestrian ones, for that matter. Have you thought about who you’d leave in charge, or-”

“Do you think I’m a capable commander or not?” He didn’t mean to sound so biting, but her comments rankled him.

“Of course I do.” There was a pause and Miles realized Olivier was probably at a loss for words. “I’m sorry, Miles, I’m just-” she paused again, “Look, I know you’re capable, but so was Buccaneer. I don’t want--I can’t let anything happen to you. _I can’t._ ”

The anger rushed out of him like a flood. “Oh, love. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.” There was silence again and Miles stared helplessly at his hands. Had they been together, he would have simply gathered her into his arms and held her until the feelings of vulnerability that made her so angry and unsure were driven away. In turn, her embrace would anchor him, soothing and steadying him until the dizzying sensation of being unmoored by his own responsibility faded.

“Take Scar.”

“Sorry, what?” He shook himself, clearing the morose thoughts.

“Ask Mustang if you can take Scar. He’s a capable fighter, and he can probably tell his cacti apart.”

Miles smiled at her abruptness. She was always a bit bad with emotions, but he’d long since accepted pragmatism was her love language. “I can tell my cacti apart, thanks.” She snorted and he chuckled a little himself. “That’s a good idea. I’ll try that. Thank you.”

“Just-” Miles wondered if he should ask if she was alright, she seemed so unsure of herself “stay safe.”

“I will.”

Dimly, he heard voices in the background and then Olivier spoke briskly. “I have to go, Colonel. Best of luck.”

“[Ishvala be with you, love.]”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please don't hate me for the Liv/Miles angst. 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think!


	7. Answers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading!

Amidst all the chaos, Scar almost didn’t notice the strange goings on. But, Altan collected a small gathering of like-minded Ishvalans who met in each other’s tents and complained about the Amestrian soldiers. Miles refused to do anything about it.

“If I go in, as an Amestrian soldier, and break up their meetings, it’ll only make things worse.” Miles told him, sensibly, as they sat on the floor of his tent and sipped coffee one afternoon.

“You could go in as an Ishvalan.” Scar suggested, indicated the cingul Miles had hung in the back of his tent. He received a raised brow and slight frown in response. He nodded, and glanced out the open tent flap at the quiet campsite. Even the most stalwart of Ishvalans returned to their tents to escape the mid-afternoon heat.

“I doubt anything will come of it, anyway.” Miles set his mug down and leaned against his desk. The desk was, in fact, nothing more than boards taken from the floor of a supply wagon with a broken axle propped on cinder blocks. Miles didn’t seem to mind. “They’re young and hot-headed, which makes them easy to see through.”

“If you say so.” Scar gulped his coffee. “Master shares your optimism. He keeps thanking Ishvala for the military presence during temple services as though that will persuade them.”

“Is the temple open already?” Miles sounded vaguely surprised.

“Yes.” Scar nodded, “It still needs work, but we’ve sent for paint, and the women are weaving rugs as fast they can.” He glanced down at the intricate, colorful, rug covering the sand floor. “How on earth did you get this rug? I thought they weren’t selling any until the temple was fully covered.”

“Tava gave it to me. She made a mistake, and refused to put it in the temple.” He pointed at a corner section where the weaving bulged a bit. “I told her no one would notice, but-” He shrugged.

“She wants it to be perfect. No harm in that.” Scar ignored the barely noticeable twitch of Miles’ lips and they sat in contemplative silence for a while.

“Look.” Miles sat up, suddenly, nearly knocking over his coffee, which he grabbed hastily. “I want to ask you a favor.”

“Ask.” Scar crossed his arms, uncertainly.

“I want to ride out to Gunja.” Miles’ jaw set firmly. “To my grandfather’s ancestral home. I haven’t been since-” He stopped, grinding his teeth. “Mustang refuses to authorize me to go alone, too dangerous, apparently. If you went with, though-” He trailed off, staring into his coffee like it held the answer to all the world’s problems.

“I’ll do it.” Scar moved to clap him on the shoulder and stopped short.

“Thank you.” Miles nodded, without looking up. Scar mimicked his gesture, and feeling a bit awkward, departed to rest in his own tent.

\---

They set out for Gunja before the sun rose on a particularly cold morning, leaving Breda in charge. Scar stared straight ahead and watched the miles of sand give way into wreckage, then back into sand, and then wreckage once more. In some places, only unnatural, unmarked, mounds of sand speak of what happened, mass graves obscuring the ruined villages.

Miles, wearing his goggles, was silent. At last, when the sun was high and blistering in the afternoon sky they reached the remains of Miles’ grandfather’s village. Miles lead Scar down scorched streets, feet sure and steady even without landmarks.

The wind whistled across the sand, their horses nickered, and cactus wren called shrilly, otherwise the ruins were silent. It was an eery, dead kind of quiet, and Scar found himself looking over his shoulder even though he knew there were no other living things, for miles upon miles.

Miles stopped abruptly and turned in a slow circle, taking in the remains of the walls of a house around him. He scraped at the sand with his boot slowly uncovering a stone floor. Scar backed up to where the door of the house would have been and watched as Miles slowly pushed around rubble and scraped away sand, steadily revealing the remains of a small, but respectable, home. There were scorched books, and glass crunched underfoot as he walked. He stumbled over a smashed clock, and caught himself on what must have been a table at some point.

He seemed to see something under a pile of crumbling bricks, because he scrambled over and clawed at them. He held the item up like a prized treasure, and the sun glinted off the broken glass of a picture frame. Scar could not see what the photo was of, but it must have been his grandfather or other relatives because he stared for a long moment and then fell to his knees.

The sound that came from the Colonel jarred him, cutting to the core. Calling it a scream seemed too simplistic; It was a primal sound that carried anguish in a way words could not. He retreated to give Miles privacy as the man’s scream turned slowly into sobs.

-

Miles wiped his eyes when his sobs finally stopped and pried the photo free of it’s broken frame, tucking it into his jacket. It seemed almost miraculous that his grandparent’s wedding photo had survived all those years, facedown in the sand, only a thin frame protecting the paper from the blistering sun.

Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet and tried to envision the walls raised around him. Closing his eyes, he could almost picture his grandfather humming a little to himself as he snuck a pastry from its basket on the counter, winking at Miles when Grandmother huffed and threw her hands up in mock exasperation.

The smell of the house, rich coffee and pastries mingling with drying spices and musty books, would always be Miles’ favorite. Lost in his memories, he gave an experimental sniff, and only the smell of dust and sand reached his nose. He opened his eyes again and glanced around.

There had been surprisingly few skeletons on their way into the village. Miles supposed the people had barricaded themselves in the Temple, or perhaps, the library. Gunja, by accident or otherwise, routinely had libraries that dwarfed their temples. With that in mind, he started off again. He knew his intuition was right nearly immediately. The library district was even more heavily damaged, more bullet-hole riddled and scorched, rather than casually destroyed.

The library doors were smashed inward, gouges from a battering ram obliterating what had once been elaborate carvings. The steps were littered with bones. He pushed his way up, resolutely avoiding the scattered corpses. He wondered if he would even be able to recognize his grandfather’s remains. Unless one of the tangled skeletons was clutching a copy of an ancient manuscript covered in inky musings, or--his heart skipped a beat--wearing a wedding ring. Ishvalans didn’t use rings, but his grandparents had.

A sound at the entrance had him whirling, gun raised, but it was only Scar. The larger man had his arms crossed, his face unimpressed.

“You will not find answers in the halls of the dead.”

“Perhaps.” Miles acknowledged, tucking his weapon back into its holster. “But, I wanted to know.”

“If you find your families’ remains, what then? Will we have a funeral here? Leave the rest of the dead alone, because there is none left alive to mourn them?”

“Perhaps we should. Have a mass funeral, I mean. So many have no closure at all.” He was listening to Scar, but at the same time his eyes kept searching the dim room, seeking that glint of a metal band.

“We cannot consecrate every region.”

“Why not?”

“It is impractical. We must first rebuild, then honor the past.”

“Can we rebuild without honoring the past first?”

Scar shook his head, unable to answer. “Come, my brother, we need to ride back.”

“Say a prayer?” Miles asked, oddly quiet. Scar blinked his surprise and nodded. “I know, I’m not devout, but it seems like we should.”

Scar nodded again and led him back out to the library steps. The knelt at the base and Scar began a funerary rite, faltering at first, but then growing in confidence. There should have been incense and they should have worn cinguls, but he doubted it truly mattered as Miles fumbled through the answering chant, unsure but sincere.

\---

Scar was sweltering on the roof of the new temple several weeks later when the answer to his unsent letter came. He wiped sweat from his brow and looked up from the shingles he was determinedly hammering down, when he saw a cloud. Not a rain cloud, but a cloud of dust moving in from the East. It took him a moment to register what he was seeing: a caravan.

“Miles!” He called scrambling to the edge of the roof.

“Yes?” Miles paused in giving directions to his men, and peered up at him.

“A caravan!” He pointed. “From Xing, I think.”

“Xing?” Miles handed his papers to Breda. “Let’s go see, then.”

They saddled up and rode out to meet the caravan. They passed the school tent and Scar noted the voices of Ishvalan children reciting the sacred texts, with pride. A respectable distance from New Ishval the caravan halted and a lone rider set out towards them. A good sign. As they drew closer to each other Scar recognized the petite rider and and urged his horse onward.

“Mr. Scar!” Mei Chang waved frantically.

“Mei?!” He reached her. “What on earth? Are you safe?”

“I’m fine!” She beamed at him and dismounted. Scar copied her and was unsurprised when he found himself wrapped in one of her bone-crushing hugs. How anyone so small could hug so tightly was beyond him. “I heard about the rebuilding of Ishval, and I knew there were a lot of Ishvalans in Xing, so-” she turned and indicated the caravan. “I asked Ling, I mean Emperor Yao, for resources. And I met this lady, Madame Christmas, and then this-”

“Woah. Slow down.” Scar blinked. “Your caravan is Ishvalan?”

“Mostly.” She nodded impatiently. “Madame Christmas and her girls are Amestrian, and Emperor Yao sent me with some Xingese body guards.”

“Miss Chang.” Miles had caught up with them, but had not dismounted. “A pleasure to see you.”

“You too, Mister Miles!” She turned back to Scar. “Can we come up to your camp?”

“Of course!” Scar paused to glance at Miles. “Well, if our Amestrian military officer allows it.”

“Of course.” Miles smiled at them. “I’ll ride back to relay the good news.” He turned his horse easily and rode back. Scar mounted again, and followed Mei to the caravan. Sure enough, the guards posted around the wagons were Xingese, but dark red eyes blinked nervously at him from within.

“[Welcome to New Ishval!]” He called. “[We are honored to see you return!]” His proclamation was greeted with cheers and the nervousness faded a little. The caravan rolled slowly into motion and by the time they made it to the camp, eager Ishvalans had amassed around the Amestrian soldiers.

Scar embraced the pandemonium this time around, running food and water to the travelers with Lieutenant Ross and the groups of eager volunteers. Miles stood calmly, visibly, at the front without his goggles, letting his red eyes and smooth grasp of Ishvalan tongue counter the fear his uniform invoked.

“Miles!” A woman’s voice surprised Scar. He turned to see a decidedly Amestrian woman leaning out of the back of a wagon. His brows went up. “I found him!” A man spilled out of the wagon, and Scar moved to tell him to wait his turn, but stopped. The man was paler and darker-haired than Miles, with deep brown eyes, but his facial structure and the way he smiled was all Miles.

“Ian!” There was a blur of blue and Scar barely had time to process that Miles abandoned his post before the two brothers (he was sure they had to be brothers) were embracing, laughing and whooping, pounding each other on the back, and shouting in a mix of Amestrian and Ishvalan.

They pulled back to look at each other, and Scar wondered why the man had gone to Xing at all; to an Ishvalan the ethnic resemblance was plain, but to an Amestrian the brown eyes would fool all but the most tenacious. Then two little heads poked out and a red-eyed girl asked why her papa was shouting and Scar understood perfectly.

“Quite the sight, huh, hun?” Scar turned to see a heavy-set older woman who puffed smoke at him. “I just love family reunions.” Her words implied a sentimentality that her face and tone did not reflect.

“Uh.” Scar blinked. “Yes.”

“What’s your name, handsome?” She studied him, thoughtfully.

“Scar.” He stepped back. “And you are-?”

“Madame Christmas!” Mei appeared. “Madame! I’ve told you, all that smoke is bad for your chi!”

“Look, kid, when you get to be my age-” the Madame grumbled, extinguishing her cigarette nonetheless. Scar seized the opportunity to busy himself with the census again.

\---

“Well, well!” Ian laughed as he surveyed his brother. “A _colonel_ , now, is it?”

“You have a son!” Miles replied, as though it were a retort. “As soon as you’re settled I’ll have Warrant Officer Fuery radio East City. We don’t have the means to contact civilians directly, but I’ll be sure to get any message you want back to Mother.”

Ian nodded his gratitude. “How is everyone? All well?”

“All well.” Miles conceded. “Things got a bit interesting here, but as they say-” he shrugged, “all’s well that ends well.”

“So we heard.” Ian glanced at him sharply. “How’s Mira?”

“She’s as strong as ever.”

“I’ve heard some interesting things.”

“Even in Xing?”

Ian nodded in acknowledgment. “We refugees like to keep in touch, as best we can. Is it true that the scar-faced one was framed?”

“Officially.” Miles said lightly.

Ian whistled lowly, and shook his head. “What kind of game is this?”

“Justice is sometimes-” Miles paused to search for the right words, “convoluted.” At the unimpressed look his brother gave him he went on. “Sometimes, we must pardon the unpardonable and condemn the uncondemnable.”

Ian’s face crinkled. “What _exactly_ happened?”

“Some members of high command planned a coup d'etat using alchemical means. Briggs marched on Central, dozens were killed in the ensuing conflict.” Brown eyes narrowed sharply and Miles sighed, inclining his head at the unspoken question. “I was at joint training in East City.”

“Planning or happy coincidence?”

“Planning, not mine.” He frowned. “It wouldn’t have been a happy coincidence. People died, brother.”

“Your friend, Buccaneer?” Ian realized. “I’m sorry.” Miles shifted uncomfortably and Ian gave him a sympathetic smile. “Go call her.”

“What?”

“Go call your wife.” Ian nudged him toward the tent exit. “Now.” He added as Miles opened his mouth to explain how busy he was and how he shouldn’t overuse military resources for his own end.

\---

She didn’t answer his first two hails, and Miles drummed his fingers on the workbench, nervously. They had agreed to only three hails, and then he’d give it up--if she didn’t answer she couldn’t--and that was that.

The radio crackled and then softly, “M-Miles? Is-”

“Nothing’s wrong, love.” Miles smiled fondly at the tone he recognized as sleepy. “Did you fall asleep waiting for me?”

Silence. Then, petulantly, unconvincingly, “no.”

“You must be exhausted.”

“Tch! I was just doing some paperwork and it was dull.”

“Mmhm.”

“Have you been taking lessons in annoying behavior from Mustang?” He laughed outright at that, earning a “hmmph!” of frustration. She yawned. “Why did you call, then?”

“You’ll never guess.”

“I don’t like guessing games.”

“I know, love. A caravan arrived today.” He paused. “From Xing.”

“Oh?” She sounded instantly more alert. “Your brother?”

“Yes!” He grinned stupidly at the wall. “He and Lena and Anelise _and_ baby Matt!”

“Another one?”

He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Most people would say congratulations or something, love.”

“Why? It’s not like you had a baby. I suppose I might congratulate a new mother on surviving childbirth, but otherwise-” he could practically hear her shrug.

“You’re incorrigible.”

“So they tell me.”

“Who’s this ‘they’? Anyone I should I know about?” He teased.

She snorted. “If I ever grow tired of you, I won’t waste energy skulking about. You’ll know.”

“Oh?”

“Don’t sound so peeved. I could never grow tired of you.”

_“[Should the stars fall from the heavens.]"_

"What?"

"It's the start of an Ishvalan poem, about two lovers who persist in their love for each other even through great strife." He hesitated. "It was a favorite of my grandmother's."

"You'll have to tell it to me sometime."

"Come visit Ishval," he suggested, "and I'll tell you then."

She swallowed thickly. "I'm going to hold you to that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks for reading and please review!


	8. Raid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little shorter, due to my life being nuts, but I hope you all enjoy it anyway. Happy reading!

Scar and Miles steadfastly dodged Madame Christmas and the rest of her girls for the few days they stayed to make arrangements, and breathed a collective sigh of relief when they left. The temple structure was completed shortly after and they turned their attention to building a hospital. The Ishvalans agreed to wait and begin building their own homes when the hospital, and then the school were finished. Time marched on.

\---

It was the middle of the night and Scar had questions. The first being, _what on earth is going on?_ His tent flap flew open and Miles, half-in uniform, leaned in. “Here!” He threw something small and metal at Scar who caught it deftly. “Keep everyone back, but if something goes wrong, don’t hesitate to defend yourselves.” He withdrew, and Scar blinked down at the object in his hand. A key. No, _the_ key to the munitions truck.

He leaped to his feet, grabbed a robe, and threw it over his sleep trousers. He darted out of his tent and surveyed the scene. It was pandemonium. Soldiers were charging toward the outskirts of New Ishval, and Scar followed without regard for Miles’ directions.

The camp was surrounded by horsemen, their masked faces illuminated by their flaming torches. Gleaming in the firelight, Scar could make out weapons, but only in the hands of some of the men. They were poised to attack, but seemed to be waiting for a signal. The Amestrian soldiers took up defensive positions, their own weapons drawn.

“Be warned!” Miles called across the gap, speaking to one man who seemed to be the leader. “This camp is under the protection of the Amestrian military!”

“We know.” The leader returned. “We’ve come to liberate you of your resources. Hand them over and we’ll go peacefully. We’re not interested in a skirmish, but your goods are wasted on the Ishvalan dogs. Scum like them don’t deserve to have-” He probably would have continued his spiel, but a quirk of Miles’ finger lodged a bullet in his knee cap. He screamed and yanked on his horse’s reins.

“Leave this place and do not return!” Miles thundered. “Or my next bullet will be in your head!”

A brave, or foolhardy, man charged toward the Colonel. Another swift trigger-pull later and he tumbled from his horse, dead. The would-be raiders panicked, obviously not expecting the military to defend the Ishvalans. Half bolted immediately. The other half hovered uncertainly.

“Leave or meet the same fate!” Miles retrained his gun, unflinching.

Scar watched, tensely. The Amestrians could easily take such a disjointed group, but the risk for collateral was high. The tents offered no protection from stray bullets. Another would-be murderer charged from a good distance. Miles turned, finger on the trigger. There was the resounding crack of a gunshot, but Miles was the one to crumple to the ground. In the ensuing pandemonium, the charger grabbed the dead man off the ground and the rest of the bandits rode off, pursued by a volley of gunshots.

“I’m fine!” Miles snarled from the ground as several soldiers crowded him anxiously. “Go after them! Now!”

Several teams scrambled to give chase, but Scar could already tell the bandits had too much of an advantage. By the times the teams pulled together, they were long gone.

“You alright?” He crouched beside Miles, trying to stay out of the way of the medics.

“Just fine.” Miles gritted out, clutching his left arm, blood seeping between his fingers. “Flesh wound. I’ve had much worse.” He hissed. “Still stings, though.”

“Excuse me, Sir.” A medic pushed Scar away to get closer to Miles’ wound.

“Master Scar!” Tava and Master made their way toward him. “What’s happened?”

“Are we in danger?”

“Everything’s fine.” Scar held up his hands placatingly. “Several military teams have departed to give chase. The rest of the soldiers will be keeping watch through the night. Please, everyone” he turned to the people gathering eagerly around him “return to your tents. We’ll let you know if anything changes.” The information spread through the tense crowd and it began to dissipate.

“Mister Scar!” Mei ran up to him bumping into, and nearly knocking over, Tava. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mei. Oof.” He grunted when she squeezed him.

“I heard someone was shot!”

“Colonel Miles received a minor flesh wound.” Scar pried her off himself. “But he’s fine. We all should get some rest, too.”

“I’m staying with Miss Catalina and Miss Ross.” Mei told him, abruptly. “But they’re both out chasing the bandits.”

“Are you afraid to be alone?” Tava recovered her footing and stepped toward the girl, arm extended.

“No!” Mei replied a little too quickly. “I’ve crossed the desert, fought homunculi-”

“No one’s questioning you, Miss Mei.” Master cut across her gently. “Even I don’t want to be alone.”

“Come on, Mei.” Scar clapped a hand on her shoulder. “You can have my cot. I’ll sleep on the floor.” He ignored the looks Tava and Master gave him. He and Mei had spent plenty of nights keeping watch while the other slept, or sleeping upright with their backs pressed together while Yoki, whining to himself, took the watch. She would feel safest with this arrangement, and if anyone thought it was improprietous he would have a thing or two to say to them.

\---

The morning brought the return of the search parties. As Scar predicted, they were empty-handed.

“I’m sorry, Sir. We tried to follow their tracks, but it was dark. Then the wind picked up and wiped them away.” Catalina, with bags under her eyes and sand in her hair, reported to Miles.

“It’s not your fault, Lieutenant.” Miles sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “Go get some rest; take the whole day off. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“Can’t say I expected anything else.” Miles sighed again, turning to Scar, his arm in a sling. “How do you think they knew how to find us?”

“How well did you screen the men you brought?” Scar crossed his arms and regarded him sternly.

“I’ll look into it.” Miles rubbed the back of his neck again and swore quietly. “I screened the officers myself, I trust them all with my lives. The NCOs, though, were pretty much luck of the draw.” He grimaced. “Do you really think one of my men tipped off those bandits?”

“It’s a distinct possibility.” Scar frowned. “I certainly hope not, though.”

“I’ll get Fuery to tap the radio lines. I’ll get a few of the men who I absolutely trust to keep an eye on things.”

“I’ll keep an eye on things from this side, too.” Scar replied, but it seemed to fall on deaf ears. Miles nodded and wanders away.

\---

“Master Scar!” Scar paused on his way through the camp, arms full of papers for Miles; mostly complaints, reports, and suggestions from the Ishvalan refugees. With so many people in New Ishval, Scar left the workforce proper to bridge the chasm-like gap between the Amestrians and the Ishvalans. Most days his work was somewhere between secretary and therapist.

“Yes, Altan?” He turned to the man who has used polite words, and a rude tone.

“I’ve heard you believe a spy in the military tipped off those bandits.”

“Have you?” Scar scowled at him.

“Have you considered, that maybe it’s Colonel Miles?”

“The Colonel is the last person I would suspect.” Scar shifted his papers. “Did you forget he was injured defending the camp?”

“A ruse, I’m sure.” Altan nodded to himself. “A traitor such as him would have to be wily. How else would he fool so many people?”

“You’re a fool, Altan.” He sighed impatiently. “Go be useful, and keep your ramblings to yourself.”

“Teh! You’ll see who the fool is when the traitor is made to speak the truth.”

Scar dismissed the strange encounter and continued with his work. He was kept in near-constant motion by the sheer volume of work, and it was the next day before he recalled the conversation. Miles vanished abruptly between breakfast and the start of the workday. Scar was on the verge of going looking for him, when he slipped into the command tent, his uniform uncharacteristically dishevelled. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

“What happened?” Scar demanded, grabbing a cloth from the first-aid kit and dabbing at Miles’ bloody face.

“I had a small encounter with a few citizens who thought I might be responsible for the incident the other night.” Miles explained, almost casually, as he pulled away from Scar’s fussing and straightened his uniform. He winced as he adjusted his sling.

“Altan?”

“Who else?”

“He came to me about you, yesterday. I meant to speak with you about it.”

“I appreciate it that.” Miles began awkwardly undoing and redoing his ponytail with only one hand. “Or, I would if you had timed it a bit better.”

“My apologies.” He watched the soldier struggle for a minute. “What did he say?”

“Oh, the usual.” Miles feigned light-heartedness. “Traitor, scum of the earth, dog of the military. Also, a few insults in the Old Tongue. I might have you translate them, they sounded pretty good.” He paused. “Don’t worry, I gave them no cause to further accuse me.”

“You mean, you just stood there and took it.” Scar crossed his arms and glared down at the smaller man.

“It works.” Miles shrugged and turned to his desk. “Ah, good. Mustang’s report on the progress in Central. I was hoping it would arrive soon.” And just like that, the subject was closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As you can tell, I'm not done torturing Miles. BUT, bigbrother!Scar makes two whole appearances, so...How mad can you be? 
> 
> As always, please share your thoughts! :)


	9. Love and Other Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heyo! This chapter is basically slice of life, because I needed a break from working on the plot. I hope you all enjoy, anyway. 
> 
> Happy reading!

“[Thank you all for coming.]” Miles addressed the crowded meeting tent, with typical ease. The tent had been expanded twice, but still Ishvalans had to stand in the back and sit on the floor of the crowded aisles.

“As you may have heard, our most recent convoy brought news from General Mustang in Eastern command. Progress for the new railroad has gone remarkably well, and we anticipate the rail reaching us within the year.” He paused, smiling at the cheer this garnered. “When we have our rail station established we will be able to get supplies much more rapidly.”

“Before this can happen,” he swallowed, “Fuhrer Grumman has asked a board of generals to come out and do an inspection of my command.” Tension soared in the tent and he pressed on quickly. “This is not an excuse to judge you, your-our-ways and customs, but rather to ensure I am doing my job well. Ishval is, after all, a small military outpost and isolated, and the environment is right for abuses. It’s been known to happen. While they are here, they will also be meeting with you all, and determining if the time is right for General Mustang to bring more troops and supplies and command up close, rather than from afar.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “Any questions?”

“[Yeah.]” Altan, unsurprisingly, piped up. “[How do we know this isn’t an excuse to wipe the last of us out?]”

Scar grimaced. “[The military has had plenty of opportunity. They’ve poured money and valuable resources into our wellbeing.]”

“[Yeah, but, there were those bandits-]”

“[Hush, young man.]” Master interjected. “[You are only trying to stir up strife, and I’ll hear no more of it.]” Altan fell silent, angry, but unwilling to defy the priest.

“I received something else with our convoy.” Miles informed them, smiling once more, and holding up a letter.

Scar frowned at the pink paper, and the faint smell of roses that reached him even several feet away.

“I sent the beautiful Ishvalan blanket that I purchased from Miss Lowe to Miss Catherine Armstrong. She is very, ah, influential, in Amestrian society. With her endorsement, we believe it will be possible to sell Ishvalan craftsmanship like blankets, rugs, and maybe even pottery. She has even agreed to include a card explaining the history and significance of our Ishvalan customs.”

The cheering became overwhelming at this point, and Miles grinned as he explained his vision to fund their Cultural Preservation Efforts Tava was suggested to head up the newly-formed group and was elected unanimously.

\---

“Oh, Mister Scar.” Mei sighed at him, as he cooked supper over the firepit he shared with Miles.

“What’s wrong, Mei?”

“I sent Alphonse three letters telling him I was coming to Ishval and bringing those Alkahestry books you asked me for. But he didn’t respond to any of them. I thought for sure he’d come to see me-er, the notes.” Xiao-Mei nuzzled her mistress’s face gently, but received only a despondent sigh in response.

Scar clenched and unclenched a fist at his side. “I’m sorry, Mei. Perhaps they got lost between Xing and Resembool?” He was surprised at the anger surging in him, and his deeply conflicted thoughts. _How dare Alphonse stand her up like this,_ the thought raced through him alongside _if he dares touch her I’ll-_

“Maybe.” Mei sighed again. “Mister Scar can I make a confession?”

“Er, I’m not a priest anymore-”

“Not that kind of confession!” Mei blushed furiously. “Just, you know, a secret.”

“If you want.” He turned the meat he was carefully frying.

“I like Alphonse.” She whispered, clenching her tiny fists. “I really like Alphonse. I thought he liked me, too, but-” Scar was alarmed to see tears running down her cheeks.

“Oh honey!” Catalina appeared seemingly out of nowhere, dropping a box labeled “fragile” and rushing to throw her arms around Mei. “There, there, honey. Cry it out.”

Scar breathed a sigh of relief as Mei began to calm down. He was in _way_ over his head.

“Hey-a, have you seen my brother- Oh! Is everyone alright?” Ian sauntered up and then stopped, giving Scar a sympathetic glance. Scar pulled the frying pan out of the fire and shrugged.

“Everything’s fine.” Catalina snapped. “Just stupid men being stupid!” She calmed slightly when Ian held up his hands in acknowledgment of her point. “I don’t know where the Colonel is, though, I was going to give him those supplies.”

Ian grabbed the box hastily. “I’ll take them to him.” He patted Mei’s shoulder and gave Scar an impish grin before heading off.

When Mei was calm, Catalina followed him, and Scar awkwardly dished up the food he prepared.

“Thanks, Mister Scar. This is really good.” Mei told him, cheeks chubby with food. Xiao-Mei pilfered a potato wedge off her plate.

“You know,” Scar sat down across from her. “You don’t need to call me Mister Scar, Scar works just fine.”

Mei’s eyes went as big as saucers. “ _B-But,_ Mister Scar!”

“Or you don’t have to!” Scar told her quickly, afraid she would start crying again.

“That’s so nice!” She threw herself at him, and before he had time to react he was being crushed in of her near-deadly hugs. Someday, he would understand how someone so deceptively cute and tiny could cause so much pain.

\---

“Colonel Miles!” Miles, in his casual off-duty Ishvalan tunic and trousers, stopped in his tracks and grimaced before turning to face Catalina. _All he wanted was to eat dinner and read in peace._ “I’ve come to request a reassignment, Sir!” She barked out even as she snapped him a quick salute.

“May I ask why, Captain?” His cool professional tone barely disguised his confusion.

“First Lieutenant Ross, Sir!” Catalina snarled. “I’ve tried and I’ve tried, but I can’t keep working with her, sharing a tent, being her battle-buddy! It’s too much!”

“Um.” Miles blinked. “I’d be happy to issue you your own tent, if that would help?”

“That would. Thank you, Sir.”

“Has Lt. Ross done anything to offend you, or-?” He cursed himself internally. _Don’t get involved! Idiot!_

“Yes! All the time, she goes on and on about her stupid boyfriend! He’s so nice, so cute, so sweet! It’s disgusting!”

“Are you jealous?” What is wrong with you?!

Catalina glared at him and looked ready to tell him she was not, thank you very much, but instead she snapped. “Yes! Okay! I was there for him when he was paralyzed! Took him gifts, read to him, called him up in the middle of the night just to make sure he wasn’t too depressed! And then, back from the dead comes little miss Maria. ‘Let me help you with your physio, Jean. My parents were doctor’s, Jean! Let me stare lovingly into your eyes, Jean!’ Aaagh!” She hid her face in her hands.

Miles realized he had taken several steps backward while Catalina was shouting, and was at the edge of a fire pit, poised to set his tunic on fire if he kept going.

“Catalina!” Breda hurried over, looking horrified. “I overheard you just now-”

“The whole camp overheard you!” Someone called from a nearby tent.

“And, I think maybe you misunderstand-”

“I misunderstand?!” Catalina shrieked.

“Well, Havoc asked me, er, I was supposed to wait, but-” Breda, it seemed was destined to be unable to finish a single sentence.

“You imbecile!” Ross marched over determinedly. “I have a half a mind to slap the sense into you, superior or not!”

“How dare you-?!” Catalina looked ready to slap her right back. Miles glanced over his shoulder to see if he had any more room to back up. He didn’t.

“I’m not dating Jean! I’m dating Denny!” Ross shouted. “My parents are doctors. I used to help with therapy for them all the time! Jean hasn’t asked you out yet, because he’s afraid you’ll reject him! He keeps harassing me for advice! And, you didn’t ask, but you know what? I’m going to give you some! Do what I did, and ask your idiot out yourself!”

Silence fell and the two women stood, glaring at each other for a long moment, before somehow, someway, they fell into each other’s arms. Miles brushed embers off his tunic and steps forward.

“Ah, so is one tent going to be okay?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Absolutely, Sir!”

“Well,” Breda glanced around awkwardly, directing a muttered comment to the stunned Colonel. “Havoc was going to call and ask her out when she next has leave. Sent me a little gift to give her for him and everything.”

“He did?!” Catalina gasped. “Oh, show me!”

“Sure.” Breda hurried away.

“Um, Catalina?” Miles hesitated. “This isn’t any of my business, but, er-”

Catalina turned back and studied him for a moment. “Buccaneer?” She guessed. “We had a connection, but it wasn’t like that. We figured out pretty quick, we didn’t want to date or anything; we were more like best friends. He was the one who encouraged me to go for Jean in the first place.”

“Right.”

Catalina smiled. “I think he’d be really happy for me, but he’d be pretty angry with you for leaving Mira all alone.” Miles narrowed his eyes at her, but she didn’t seem to have any idea who Mira really was. “He was pretty big into other people’s happiness.”

“Yeah,” Miles nodded a faint smile of his own creeping across his face, “he was.”

\---

Scar spent his days working, and his evenings with Mei. Otherwise, he generally avoided socializing. Miles, however, had become extremely popular with the children. It had begun, Scar thought sourly with his niece, the little red-eyed girl, Anelise. She was painfully shy, but had warmed up to her uncle and begun to cling to him. Literally. It had been baffling the first few times Miles made his way through the camp with the little girl on his back, moving as easily as though she were a particularly wriggly rucksack. After the first few times, most people adjusted.

And then her toddler brother had begun to cling to his leg and Scar thought that would put a stop to it. It hadn’t. Miles continued steadily as though there were nothing in the world odd about a military commander toting two small children around. He did, however, return them to their parents any time he set out to do anything remotely dangerous.

From there, what seemed half the children in the camp flocked to him when he wandered by, begging for piggyback rides, or for him to tell a story. Before long Miles had taught all of the children (including his niece who flouted the rule, and could still be found begging a “horsey” ride from her uncle at any time) that when he was in uniform he had to work but when he was in his casual Ishvalan clothing then he would be more than happy to oblige. Scar found the whole situation undignified and embarrassing. Not that anyone, least of all Miles, has asked him.

\---

“Scar.” Mei said seriously, one evening after dinner with Miles. She was sprawled on the floor translating a passage from one of her books from Xingese into Amestrian for him.

Scar glanced up from the text he was crouched over; a particularly convoluted passage about an ancient Xingese practice of soul sharing, he still couldn’t make out if it was a metaphor or a literal thing. He was vaguely aware that the pen he was holding was leaving ink on his chin, but he ignored it. “Hmm?”

“Have you ever been in love?”

“What? No.” He lowered the pen and sat up, stretching out the kink in his neck. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” She blushed and ducked her head.

“Is this about Alphonse?”

“No.” She sat up slowly, and then nodded. “Yes.”

“Did he write you back?” He asked, growling (surprising even him) when she shook her head. “Don’t waste your time on him, Mei, okay? You deserve better.” And, honestly, as much as he likes (liked) Alphonse, he doubted he’d ever consider anyone good enough for little Mei.

“I knew you’d say that.” She frowned, and petted Xiao-Mei absently. “I just keep hoping. He used to write back so promptly. There was a letter the day after I got back to Xing. And the every two weeks, I’d get one. It takes a week each way, and he would always write back the day he got mine. And then, he just stopped. Is it- Do you think- Did I do something wrong?” She sniffled.

“Of course not!” Scar reached to pat her shoulder and then stopped, uncertain. “You’re a very nice young lady, Mei, and Alphonse should be honored you would spend any time on him at all. It’s his loss.”

“Thanks.” Mei sighed and rubbed her eyes. “I’m kind of tired, can I finish this tomorrow?” She held up her half-finished translation.

“Definitely.” Scar nodded, even though the passage would help him understand his own greatly. “Have a good night.”

“Goodnight, Scar.” She picked up Xiao-Mei and paused at the door. “Thanks again.”

Scar nodded and returned to his work, but found himself distracted. He felt very protective of the girl, and wondered how bad it would be to make the journey to Resembool and beat some sense into Alphonse. Pretty bad, he decided with a sigh as he shut his notes. Even still, if Al messed with his daught-Mei, _(where did that come from?)_ he knew plenty of ways to separate his soul from his body, no ancient Xingese secrets required.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! Comments are like sunshine in the best way. :)


	10. Rain of Blood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, guys, sorry I missed a week of updates, life's been crazy. I have one now up now, though!
> 
> Fair warning, angst ahead!

“You’re not listening to me at all, are you?”

Olivier’s pen stilled on the page and she glanced sheepishly at the radio on her desk. She had, in fact, been enjoying the warm lull of Miles’ voice while tuning out his words entirely. “No,” she protested, feebly even to her own ears, “Catalina and Ross were having a fight because-” she cast around for an answer “they both liked, er, Breda? Wait, that’s highly unprofessional and a violation of regulations, so-”

Miles’ laugh sent a wave of warmth through her that she would be embarrassed to reveal. “Well, you were listening better than I thought you were.” He sobered slightly. “What are you working on, love?”

She glanced down at the form, suddenly wishing he didn’t know her so well. He knew that she wouldn’t ignore him unless something really pressing was weighing on her mind. If it was simply a matter of fort busyness she would reschedule their conversation, only something distressing would have her using his voice as a soothing backdrop.

She must have been deliberating for too long because Miles spoke again. “You don’t have to tell me, I just thought it might help.”

“I shouldn’t ignore you, I apologize.” Olivier glared down at the paperwork. “I have to approve this report to send into Central, and I’m not pleased.”

“Ah.” Miles chuckled a little imagining the fate of whoever displeased her. “Who’s report?”

“Doc.” Olivier replied curtly.

Miles frowned at his radio, brow creasing in confusion. “I can’t imagine her slacking.”

“It isn’t that.” Olivier sighed, “I simply disagree with her findings. Of course, they’re in accordance with the physician I saw in Central-”

“The physician _you saw_?” Miles cut across her more sharply than he intended. “What about?”

Olivier cursed herself for the slip. “It’s nothing, I-”

“Olivier.”

“It was about the injuries I sustained during the Promised Day.”

“I thought you had healed?”

“I have, but I’ve broken my ribs several times now.” She didn’t have to see Miles to know he was wearing his most disapproving face while he waited for her to go on. “She wants me to retire.”

Miles sucked in a breath. “What are you going to do?”

Olivier allowed herself a fleeting smile: it had been ridiculous to hide this development from Miles, who was thus far the only one not trying to tell her what to do. “I have a few more things I want to deal with before I can even consider it.”

“I understand.”

“Regardless,” Olivier spoke briskly, “tell me how things are really going in Ishval.”

“Well,” it was Miles’ turn to hesitate, “we were nearly raided and I was shot-”

“You were _what?!_ ” Olivier thundered, turning to glare fiercely as that radio as though the force of her rage could be carried down it.

Miles hastily explained.

“You should have told me sooner.”

“It wouldn’t have done any good,” Miles reminded her, gently. “You have important work to do and you couldn’t have come down here. I certainly can’t go there. Besides, I have my theories, but we had no warning. Tactically, there wasn’t any reason.”

“I see,” Olivier murmured reluctantly, “I wouldn’t have been of any use to you.”

“I still should have told you.” Miles apologized, both of them ignoring that Olivier had done the exact same thing. “You’re my wife, and I love you. You deserve to know.”

Olivier wanted to scold him more, but couldn’t bring herself to it. “I don’t like not being able to protect you.”

“I don’t like not being able to support you, either,” Miles replied, voice soft, “but, we agreed, this is for the best.”

“I know.” For a moment it seemed Olivier would leave her cold response hanging in the air, but then she spoke again, “I just want to be selfish sometimes. Tch!” She scoffed at herself. “I sound pathetic.”

Miles shook his head at the sneering tone. “You’re never selfish.”

She laughed scornfully at that. Her gaze swept around the room, avoiding the radio as though Miles would be able to see her through it. She _felt_ selfish. “It must be quite late in Ishval,” she said at last. “I should let you sleep.”

“Alright, have a goodnight.”

“You as well.”

“Liv?”

“Yes?”

“Don’t stay up all night working, please. I worry about you.”

To Miles’ surprise she didn’t fight him. “I’ll do my best. The last thing I want to do is give you more reason to worry.”

It was only as Miles was putting up the radio equipment and making his way back across camp that he realized she had sounded both guilty and _sad_ under her usual brusque manner. He closed his eyes for a moment and murmured a soft plea for her to be alright. He could handle her short temper, her emotional walls, and her insecurities, but he was terrified to the core at the thought of her nightmares, her demons. He wanted nothing more than to gather her in his arms (even against her protests) and hold her until the pain was only a distant memory. He took a deep breath and carried on. There was work to be done, and he couldn’t go home, go to her, until it was done.

\---

_The roof of the Fort was still her favorite place. The black and white backdrop was so calm and clear, with no room for haziness or misinterpretation._

_“Look up,” Buccaneer’s voice sounded in her memory and she tipped her face up to see the sky._

_Horror filled her; the sky was the hazy red-orange of a fiery battle and thick black clouds began to spill rain. The drops hit her, not cold and sharp as she expected, but hot and thick. She frowned and touched her cheek, swiping at the rain. Her fingertips came away red and the coppery scent of blood filled her nostrils. She looked around her as the rain turned to a deluge, saturating the snow, smearing it crimson._

She turned, but the fort had turned to an open tundra and there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide. When she turned again, Buccaneer was standing before her, the rain falling around him and never touching him. His right arm, however, was gone, and the shoulder was a gaping hole.

_He smiled at her. “We can’t keep meeting like this.”_

_She glared. “This isn’t the time for jokes, Captain.”_

_“Major, I think you mean. I was promoted in death.” He grinned. “I think I have you to thank for that.”_

_“It isn’t enough.”_

_“Eh, I’m dead. I don’t really care about ranks.”_

_“You shouldn’t have died at all.”_

_“I’m a soldier, it’s what we do. I’m just glad my death meant something.”_

_“If it’s what we do, why am I still here? Shouldn’t I have traded my life in a long time ago? If you had lived- ”_

_Buccaneer shrugged and shook his head at her. “You can’t change the past, no matter how much you might want to.” She glared at him, and he laughed. “What happened to no love for the dead?”_

_She didn’t get to answer, though, because he faded away into nothingness. “Buccaneer!” She screamed into the tundra, “Buccaneer!”_

_“He’s gone.”_

_She whirled again to face Miles. Like Buccaneer, he was bloodless in the horrifying landscape. She realized suddenly she was freezing, and he was dressed for the desert. He was aways away, but if she could get to him, maybe she could be warm. She began to run toward him, slipping in stumbling in the muck. Everytime she got close he got further away._

_“Miles! Wait for me!” She was suddenly watching herself, and realized with horror, she was a child again. Her tiny legs couldn’t hope to cover the distance. Miles smiled and stretched out a hand to her, but it was pointless, the land just kept expanding between them. “Wait! Don’t leave me! Wait! I’m so cold, Miles-!”_

“Sir!” Someone was shaking her shoulder, “Sir!”

Olivier jerked upright, sending papers flying. Her hand was on the hilt of her sword and she whirled on her supposed assailant and Karley took a swift step backward, hands raised.

“Sorry, Sir.” He lowered his hands as she released the hilt of her sword. “I came by to put up the radio equipment and you, ah, you had fallen asleep at the desk.”

She nodded, running her fingers through her hair, smoothing the sleepy rumples out of it. “Was I-?”

Karley looked distinctly uncomfortable. “You were shaking, Sir.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “And?”

“You were, er,” the Lieutenant blushed, “you were begging the Major, ah no he’s a Colonel now, not to leave you.”

“Ah.”

“Yes, Sir.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’ll just put this all up now.”

Olivier nodded and started out of the room. At the door she paused, “Oh, Lieutenant-”

“Mention this to anyone and you’ll rip me apart limb from limb?” The lieutenant grinned at his general. “Yes, Sir!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, I'd love to hear your comments!


	11. Oh Brother!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy reading!

“Look, all I want is for my to daughter to have a connection to her heritage.” Scar glared at the back wall of his tent. The argument outside had been growing increasingly loud, until he couldn’t tune it out any longer.

“She will, she does, but what you’re asking-” Miles huffed in frustration.

“Well, I was never recognized in an Ishvalan temple, so it has to be you.” Ian retorted.

“Or not at all.” Miles countered. “Recognition Ceremonies, cingul, Ian it’s a burden. One Anelise doesn’t have to-”

“She has _red_ eyes, Miles! Red!”

“A burden enough for an eighth Ishvalan!”

“She looks Ishvalan, brother! I’m just trying to give her the best chance-”

“This isn’t the way, Ian!” Miles’ snarled.

“What are you so afraid of?!”

_Silence._

Scar slipped out of his tent and walked far enough around the corner to observe the two brothers.

“This is so like you!” Ian ran his hand through his dark hair. “Red eyes were enough to make you special to Grandfather, but when someone else in the family-”

_“Enough, Ian.”_ Scar recognized the tone as dangerous, but Ian either didn’t or chose to ignore it.

“No!”

“Anelise has supportive parents and grandparents, she doesn’t need-”

“You had the same!” Ian countered. “Grandfather doted on you, raised you to be a proper Ishvalan citizen-”

“And what of Grandad?” Miles fists were balled at his sides. “He would barely look at me! Nevermind he was Auregan!He-” He stopped abruptly. “Is that what this is about? Grandfather ‘favored’ me and you’re _jealous?_ ”

“No! This is about Anelise!”

Miles snorted. “Really? Because-”

“You know what you are? You’re selfish! You’re selfish and jealous, _Florentino!_ ”

There was a dangerous popping sound as Miles jutted his jaw, and then he swung. His blow landed with a resounding crack and Ian took several staggering steps backward. There was a moment of horrified silence and then Ian straightened and swung back. Scar sprinted over and grabbed Miles as he growled and moved to strike his brother again.

“Let me go!” Miles grunted, thrashing wildly, but not without skill. Scar tightened his hold, struggling, even as Ian started toward them.

“Back up, Ian.” Scar warned in a low, rumbling tone as he struggled to keep his hold on the older of the two brothers.

“What is going on here?!” Catalina rounded the corner and froze, wide-eyed. “Uh, Sir?”

“Don’t ask,” Scar snarled as Miles landed a solid kick on his shin, and Ian succeeded in striking his brother “just grab the other one!”

Catalina was slighter than Ian, but she grabbed his collar and yanked him away easily. He glared at her, but didn’t fight. Silence, save for the brothers’ panting, fell. Catalina quirked a brow at Scar. “Can I ask now?”

“No!” Miles snarled, before slumping, defeated, against Scar. “Sorry, Captain, it’s an old family argument. Got out of control.”

“Ah.” Catalina looked from one brother to the other, the beginnings of amusement forming. “My sister and I just slap each other when we’re mad.”

“I haven’t ruled that out.” Ian muttered, darkly.

“Master Scar are you-? Oh! Mei said she heard arguing, but I didn’t thin-”

“Hello, Tava!” Catalina positively beamed at the newcomer. “Quite the sight, huh?”

Tava planted a hand on her hip and glared at the brothers. “Can I trust you won’t kill each other if you’re released?”

“Yes, of course.” Miles had calmed, considerably.

“I won’t if he won’t.” Ian muttered. Slowly, Scar released Miles, watching the brothers carefully.

“Excellent.” Tava frowned. “Follow me, then.” She lead them all into Miles’ tent. “Sit.” She ordered sternly, obediently, all four of them sank to the ground. “Now, Colonel, where do you keep your alcohol?” Six brows raised in surprise. Catalina smirked.

“There’s a tradition in Ishvalan culture to reconcile warring parties.”

“Miss Tava, that’s not sanctioned!”

“Hush, Master Scar. There aren’t any priests here.” Tava frowned again. “I’m serious about that alcohol, Colonel.” Wordlessly, Miles pointed to his standing locker. Tava flicked it open, and rummaged behind his boots. “Here we are.” She turned back to them, a bottle in her hands. “Now, we’re going to pass the bottle. When it comes to you, take a swig or tell a truth.”

“How’s that supposed to help?” Ian asked, brow creased in disbelief.

“Well, if you refuse to clear the air you become intoxicated. Which leads to fewer inhibitions, and makes it easier to clear the air. Simple.”

“Miss Tava, honestly, where did you learn this perversion?”

“Novices, Master Scar.”

“Novice Priests-?!”

“Hush, Master Scar.”

Scar closed his mouth and sat back indignant.

“I think this a great plan.” Catalina grinned, leaning back against Miles’ desk.

“That makes one of us.” Miles muttered, shooting her a dark look. He could have easily thrown her out, but apparently decided against it.

“You can go first.” Tava uncapped the bottle and handed it to him. “What had you two carrying on like school boys?”

“Anelise.”

“Anelise?” She repeated, incredulously. She threw her hands up in the air. “[All this for a girl? Ishvala have mercy!]” She narrowed her eyes at them, “are you not both married men?”

“Anelise is my niece.” Miles explained, cheeks flushed with mortification. “Ian wants to have her recognized in the Temple. Given a cingul. He thinks it will help her connect to her heritage. I think he’s a fool.”

“I think-”

“It’s not your turn, Ian.” Tava tutted. “Go ahead and pass him the bottle, Miles.”

Miles handed the bottle off, looking relieved; Ian took it with a look of exasperation. “Miles is afraid.”

“You’re not wrong.” Miles grimaced. “I’m terrified. I haven’t worn my sash since-” He made a slicing motion across his chest.

Ian waved a hand at him, “I understand, but-”

_“No.”_ Miles interjected emphatically. He took a shaky breath. “No, you don’t understand. I almost died, Ian.”

“I-” he faltered, “ _you what?_ ”

“Dad was sick, things were getting so ugly in Ishval, Grandfather didn’t want to worry him. We lied. Made it seem like I was fine, but I wasn’t. That’s why I didn’t come home that break, I was in the hospital, not some spiritual retreat at the temple.” Miles shook his head. “I’m sorry I never told you, I didn’t know how.”

“I-I didn’t know.” Ian put his head in his hands and groaned. “I’m such an _idiot!_ ”

“Yeah,” Miles snorted, but his tone was full of brotherly affection “you are.”

“Is that-” he shook his head “does that still happen?”

“No, it doesn’t. Your daughter will be safe.” Scar murmured. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tava take the bottle and recap it, untouched.

“I notice you don’t wear a sash.” Catalina commented, unhelpfully.

“That’s unrelated.”

“You’re all afraid. Well, not you, Catalina, you were in the wrong place at the wrong time.” Tava shook back the headscarf she normally wore and ran her fingers over her long silver braid. “Miles, you’re afraid of being hurt again, both physically and by being rejected by your own people. Ian, you’re afraid Anelise will feel as disconnected as you did. You, Scar, are afraid that your past prohibits you from being able to claim a place in Ishvala’s land.” They sat in silence for a minute. “Now go to bed, all of you. Here, Catalina, take this.” If Miles objected to his bottle of alcohol being given away, he didn’t comment. The two women left, and the brothers regarded each other.

“I’m sorry, brother.”

“As am I.” Ian embraced his brother, then rose, nodded and without another word, departed.

“Florentino?” Scar asked, trying not to snicker, as the tent flap swayed into stillness.

“Don’t.” Miles hissed through gritted teeth.

“Alright.” They sat in silence, each thinking. “Amir.” Scar said finally. Quietly.

“What?”

“That is-was-my name. Before.”

“Oh. Nice to finally meet you, Amir.”

“You as well, Florentino.”

Miles grimaced, “Scar.”

“Yes, Miles?”

“Let’s never do that again.”

“Agreed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> I apologize for the brevity. Between life and a lack of, well, enthusiastic reception, I've put this a bit more on the back burner. I plan to keep updating, but the updates may slow down a bit and/or continue to be shorter chapters. 
> 
> Anyways, as always, I'd love to hear your feedback!


	12. The Heart Knows

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's another short chapter, but I hope an enjoyable one. :)
> 
> Happy reading!

With the inspection from Central right around the corner, it seemed that everything that could go wrong did; The wind tore sheets of roofing off the temple and downed numerous tents, a mix-up in a radio transmission led to an entire shipment of books for the school being lost, and the medic was so overwhelmed he sent soldiers back with the wrong medicine. Twice. Altan threatened difficulty, the priests wanted reports on the progress of their law, Scar was irritable, and neither Roach nor Murray had had any progress trying to track down their potential leak. In short, Miles was in a constant state of near-panic.

“Have they told you who’s doing the review, Sir?” He tried not to sound too impatient as Mustang hemmed and hawed on the other end of the line.

“It’s a delicate situation, Colonel.” He answered at last. “I know who wants to go, and who _doesn’t_ , but the final decision hasn’t been made.”

“With respect, Sir. isn’t the Fuhrer nearly out of time? What’s the big holdup?”

Mustang coughed discreetly, but let the comment slide. “Do you follow the news, Miles?”

Miles snorted. “Yes, Sir, after the monks wake the whole city with morning prayers, I prop my feet up on a crate, fish a few spiders out of my coffee and leisurely read the paper. Of course, it’s seven days old by the time it gets here.”

Mustang laughed. “I concede your point, Miles. The Fuhrer’s every move is under scrutiny, especially after all the corruption was dragged into the daylight. Anyone too sympathetic will be seen as incapable of making an unbiased assessment. Anyone too unsympathetic-”

“Will get us thrown out of Ishval by a twenty year old radical and hordes of angry priests?”

“Something like that, yes.” Musang paused a moment, deliberating. “General Blackburn has been angling for a spot on the committee-”

“Can’t you do anything to stop him, Sir?” Miles interjected, horrified.

“Only if you have something concrete, but he knows how to keep his hands clean. You don’t have anything, do you?”

“No, Sir.”

“Really?”

Miles glared at the radio. “I wouldn’t lie to you, Sir, you’re my commanding officer.”

“Not even if General Armstrong asked you to?” Miles didn’t respond and Mustang gave a slight chuckle. “I guess I can’t blame you, Colonel. You’re a good man.”

“Er, thank you, Sir.” Miles glanced at the clock in the back of the radio truck. “With your permission, I need to go brief Scar--he gets antsy if I leave him alone for too long.”

“Permission granted, and keep me informed, Colonel.”

“Yes, Sir!” Miles switched off the radio and hung up his headset before giving a weary sigh and taking off his glasses to rub his eyes. He had a feeling the moment he stepped out of the truck he’d be set upon by no less than five people, all with different problems to address. He wasn’t wrong.

\---

Scar left his meeting with Miles and was about to cross the camp when Tava approached him with the awkward air of having been waiting for him, but trying to pass it off as a coincidental meeting.

“Master Scar,” she greeted, clutching the end of her braid in a tell-tale sign of nervousness.

“Miss Tava.” He returned with an incline of his head. “How can I help you?”

“I, er,” she fidgeted, “it’s actually about my young cousin.” He waited patiently for her to go on, and she hurried over her words. “I’ve tried to dissuade him, but he’s been keeping company with Altan, and I fear he is-” she broke off, face reddening.

“Being unduly influenced?” Scar suggested, gently. She nodded. “Would you like me to speak to him?”

“Yes! Er, well, not to give him a talking to, or anything. I just thought, maybe, you would be able to relate to him. He’s in an obstinate phase of rejecting everything I say. I’ve practically raised him, but I’m not his mother, as he likes to remind me. He might listen to you.”

“I don’t know if he will listen, but I would be more than willing to try.”

“Thank you!” She seized his hand and kissed it. “Ishvala bless your endeavors!” She, somehow, went redder than before and hurried away, leaving Scar blinking in bewilderment after her.

A squeal caught his attention and her turned to see Mei grinning at him. “What?”

“That was so sweet!”

He frowned at her. “What was?”

The grin vanished in a heartbeat, replaced with a huff of annoyance. “You are so hopeless! Honestly!” Shaking her head in apparent disgust, Mei, too, left Scar bewildered.

-

Scar, true to his word, did try to speak to Ilya. True to his prediction, Ilya didn’t listen. Frustrated, he sought out Cleric Xander who seemed to have a rapport with the youth.

“Patience, Master Scar.” Xander advised, with a slight smirk. “You have to prove you’re genuinely interested in young Ilya before he’ll consider you a friend. Right now, he thinks you just want to tell on him to his cousin.”

“That is what I want.” Scar grumbled, trying and failing, not to sound petulant.

“And you don’t know why he won’t talk to you?” Xander shook his head, tsking under his breath. “You weren’t a Temple Child, were you?”

“No.” Scar glanced curiously at him. “Were you?”

Xander nodded and swirled his mug of tea (it seemed he was permanently attached to mugs of tea, though--Scar had checked--they rarely contained wine). “It’s not a bad life. Most priests, like Cleric Markel who raised me, genuinely want to be your father. Sometimes, though, there are priests who just want to look good. It’s enough to make anyone suspicious. Factor in that his father chose to accompany Cleric Lowe to his unsuccessful peace talks with Fuhrer Bradley, effectively orphaning him twice over, Ilya just needs a little more love.”

“Right.” Scar sighed. “Well, if I were a father, maybe I would have half a clue what he wants, but-”

You sure you’re not?”

Scar spat out his own tea and stared. “Quite sure.” He said, drily, when he recovered.

Xander blushed. “I meant, Mei! She looks up to you, wants your approval for everything. I quite think she regards you as a surrogate father.”

“She has, or had, a father.”

“The Emperor of Xing?” Xander raised his eyebrows at him. “Yes, he had plenty of time for his poorest daughter, with her fifty-three wealthier siblings. And she came back from Xing within a year of making it home and learning he had passed.” Seeing Scar’s doubtful face, he added quietly. “Just think about it, brother.”

\---

“Alright, men!” Miles paced in front of his assembled troops, trying to conceal his nerves. “This is it! I expect perfection from each and every one of you! We cannot afford any mistakes while the review committee is here. Do I make myself clear?!”

Amidst the chorus of “Yes, Sirs!” from his men he distinctly saw Scar rolling his eyes, which made him want to throw something at the larger man. It wasn’t that Scar wasn’t concerned about the inspection, he simply thought Miles was worried too much.

The rumble of the truck convoy had him turning, all thoughts of Scar chased from his mind. He drew himself up to attention and watched the vehicles pulling in. To save resources, the committee had come with the supply convoy and there were trucks upon trucks of building materials, canned goods, cloth, sheep, and--wait. Sheep? Miles stared in horror at the livestock trucks.

Had he mistakenly said “sheep” instead of “sheets” when he’d ordered the roofing materials? Even if he had, no sane person would think he meant “sheeps of roofing” instead of sheets, would they?

All at once, he realized the committee was unloading and he wasn’t paying attention. He saluted hastily, trying to make it out who had been sent. His heart pounded when it realized what his conscious mind was still making sense of: the glint of the sun on a sword blade and the wave of a familiar gold mane. Nothing else seemed to matter, not the sheep, not the inspection, not even the distinct face of General Blackburn. _Olivier was there._

It felt like coming home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say thank you so much to all the people who reviewed last chapter when I was feeling so discouraged. <3 You all gave me the energy to pull through and get another chapter out this week, even though my life got even crazier. 
> 
> (On the positive side, my niece was born this past weekend! She was a little higher risk, but got to go home yesterday. :) On the negative, I wound up helping a customer that left the shop I work in and was murdered literally across the street less than five minutes later. I had to make a statement and go over security footage and it was honestly awful.)
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading and please let me know what you think!


	13. The Review

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy...Tuesday? 
> 
> Thanks for your patience, and happy reading!

“Welcome to New Ishval!” Miles saluted each of the generals in turn and waited for Mustang to make the introductions. The review board consisted of Mustang, Olivier, Blackburn, and two generals Miles didn’t know--Seversky and Avia.

Miles kept his face neutral, but Scar must not have because Gen. Avia huffed and irritated sigh and remarked that, “Yes, he was the uncle of Sergeant Avia. Unfortunately.”

They exchanged a few minutes of generic small talk before Mustang, smirking, turned to Olivier.“Well, General, aren’t you going to give the Colonel your gift?” She glared at him. Miles glanced between them, bewildered.

Olivier huffed and addressed herself to the other generals. “Miss Catherine Armstrong reported a lack of wool for the handiwork she commissions for her boutique, and she requested I bring Miss Lowe this gift of sheep.”

“They’re for me?!” Tava turned from where she was already twining her fingers in the sheep’s thick wool to stare, awestruck.

“Are you Miss Lowe?” Olivier asked, brows arched,

“Y-yes, yes I am!” Tava beamed. Olivier inclined her head in acknowledgment and Tava turned to shout at Ilya. “Fetch me water, cousin! You-” she pointed at another boy, “go ask about getting a shelter built! Go on, go!”

With that dealt with, a relieved Miles turned back to the board. “Shall we begin our tour, Sirs?” At Mustang’s approval he began to lead them through the tent city. “This is the Temple,” he explained as they went, “the pride and joy of New Ishval. We worked tirelessly to complete it.”

Scar tugged on his sleeve while the generals were admiring the temple and making the appropriate conversation with the clerics.

“What?” Miles hissed under his breath.

“Armstrong’s here.”

Miles’ raised his brows, “And?”

“We didn’t talk about her. Is this good or bad?”

Miles’ cracked a slight smile. “Definitely good.” He turned away from Scar and continued his tour. “We are now working on a hospital and school building.”

All too soon they were in the meeting tent face to face with the clerics and the group settled themselves around the long table at the head of the tent.

“Colonel Miles,” Olivier began as she reclined at the head of the table, looking for all the world like a queen on her throne, “job well done. I’m truly impressed with all you’ve accomplished in such a short period of time.”

Miles’ heart glowed. “Thank you, Sir. It’s really not due to me at all, though. We have General Mustang’s excellent guidance to thank, and even more than that the hard work and dedication of the Ishvalan people.”

“On that note, this is technically your project, Mustang.” Blackburn turned to his fellow general, “is there anything that you would like to say before we begin?”

Avia cleared his throat pointedly, “As we discussed previously, I am the most neutral party present and I will be heading up the review.”

“Of course,” Blackburn intoned in his classical oily way. “My apologies, General.”

Avia nodded curtly. “If the civilians could clear the room-” they all looked pointedly at Scar who frowned and looked back at Miles.

“Scar has been integral to the whole project, Ishvala knows he knows as much if not more than I do. If you have no objections, Sirs, I think he’d like to stay and watch me get grilled.” He gave a chuckle that he hoped sounded less hollow than it felt.

“Fine by me,” Seversky beamed genially, making the edges of his rather impressive mustache twitch. “I do love a good roasting.”

“Heh,” Mustang’s chuckle sounded as nervous as Miles feared his had. “Now, let’s remember we’re not here to roast the Colonel or the project.”

“Of course, of course.” Seversky chuckled again. “Shall we get started?”

Avia nodded and gestured for his aide to hand him a file folder. Hawkeye left Mustang’s side to begin distributing her own stack of folders. “I must admit, Colonel,” he began opening his folder and frowning thoughtfully at it, “I was surprised when I read your file.” Miles resisted the urge to frown at him and waited for him to clarify. “You have an excellent record.”

Miles couldn’t visibly react, but he saw Scar’s face darken at the implication. Blackburn smirked.

“How did you escape the purge requirements?”

“Sir, surely this isn’t relevant-”

“On the contrary, I think it’s extremely relevant to know how you handle things when you disagree with the military’s decision.”

“The military’s decision-” Mustang began.

“It was my handling not Miles’.” Olivier silenced them all. “I had his records altered to suit my needs. He had no hand in it.”

Miles felt relief wash over him. Mustang had promised to have his back, but he felt far more comforted by Olivier’s presence than anyone else’s.

“Why, might I ask?”

“Miles’ record is before you, Sir. He is-” Olivier paused, clearing her throat, “ _was_ -the best adjutant I ever had. A good leader knows how to keep their tools close.”

“That hardly seems like a good enough reason for such a dangerous admission, my dear.” Seversky tutted.

“General Seversky, I would remind you, that I do outrank you and I will not tolerate such informal address.” Olivier hissed through gritted teeth.

<[>“Of course. My apologies.” Seversky smiled benignly in the face of Olivier’s rage. Miles studied him for a moment, mentally profiling his features. If he imagined him without a mustache, he was the spitting image of Olivier’s mother. Ah. That explained a lot.

“Regardless,” Avia brought them back to the point, “Colonel Miles is here now.” He trailed a finger over the column of figures in his report. “I’m seeing a lot of good things, Colonel.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“However,” he continued ignoring Miles, “I’m rather concerned about this fight you documented between Sergeant Ruger and an unnamed Ishvalan citizen. Tell me about it.”

“Well, Sir,” Miles began, hoping desperately he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt, “the two had a heated exchange that became physical-”

Blackburn interrupted with a loud snort. “He said tell us about it, not recite the report, Colonel!”

Miles swallowed. “Yes, Sir. Sorry, Sir.”

Scar cleared his throat and leaned forward. “Old hatreds die hard,” he remarked as seven heads swiveled to face him, “and neither party could put it behind them in the heat of the sun. Miles stepped in and broke up the fight. The sergeant was sent home and the young Ishvalan was referred to our clerics for counselling.”

“That’s about it, Sirs.” Miles concurred, feeling slightly relieved.

“And you still haven’t found the person or persons responsible for leaking the location of your base camp to raiders?” Blackburn asked coolly.

Miles drew an angry breath. “That is correct, Sir.”

“And you expect us to-”

“If I recall correctly, I am leading this interview.” Avia interjected irritably and Blackburn sat back with an apologetic smile that fooled no one. “He is right, though. It is deeply concerning.” He hesitated a moment, then continued. “Are you certain that your leak is not Ishvalan in origin?”

Scar huffed angrily and glared at the general before staring at Miles while he considered his answer.

“I have considered that possibility,” Miles acknowledged, not looking at Scar, “however, without any evidence in that direction, I decided not to pursue an inquiry in that direction. I did not want to risk our already delicate situation.”

“I see.” Avia scrawled something on his paper, but said nothing else. Miles desperately wanted to know what was written, but he kept still, face blank and impassive. “Now about this--what was it?--ah, yes, the ‘Cultural Preservation Effort’.” Avia studied him. “Are you sure this is the wisest use of your resources?”

“I have used only personal resources, Sir.” Miles responded, coolly. “The funding comes from the Ishvalan’s trade craft, not the military’s pocket, Sir.” He hesitated a moment to see if Avia was going to be speak before continuing, “the Ishvalan people put a high value on their religion and culture, and both have suffered as a result of the war. To them, there is no point in physical rebuilding if it is not accompanied by spiritual rebuilding.”

“Right.” Avia cleared his throat and then nodded decisively. “On that note, we would like to meet with the Clerics and Miss Lowe at their earliest convenience.”

Miles’ eyebrows shot up. “They were not expecting to-”

“Relax, Colonel.” Mustang interjected in an almost soothing voice. “It’s only to discuss the possibility of myself and a few others who served in the war coming to help more directly.”

Miles nodded, curtly. “Yes, Sir. I will arrange it.” He glanced around the table and observed the varying stages of redness and fatigue all the generals were exhibiting. “If I might suggest, Sirs, it’s customary at this time of day to take a respite in your own tent and rest from the heat, perhaps we should resume later.”

“That sounds marvelous.” Seversky declared, mopping at his forehead. His mustache was practically dripping in sweat. There were several murmurs of agreement and as soon as Miles had summoned enough sergeants to escort them to their tents, the generals filed out.

All except Olivier, who remained seated at the head of the table. Miles went up to her, making note of the redness of her face and the sheen of sweat on her skin. “Are you alright, Sir?”

“I’m fine, Miles.” She rose, too quickly, and then staggered. Miles grabbed her arm to steady her and she gave him a look of irritated gratitude. “Thanks.”

Miles frowned, pinching the heavy fabric of her sleeve. “These are your winter weights, Sir! Why on earth didn’t you bring summers?”

She gave him a look at the admonishing tone. “I didn’t have any in Briggs, and I didn’t have time to go get any.”

“Mm.” Miles replied, exasperated. “Well, come on Sir. I’ll take you to my tent, it’s closer.” Olivier looked like she wanted to protest, but didn’t.

Miles led her to his tent, and then handed her one of his lightweight tunics. “Put this on,” he instructed gently, “and I’ll go get you some fresh water. If you don’t start to feel better, I’ll get the medic--don’t argue,” he added when she opened her mouth. “And then I’ll go by commissary and pick you up a uniform.”

“They won’t have anything my size.” Olivier muttered, taking the tunic and leaning on his desk.

Miles suppressed a smile at that. “I’ll take it to Miss Tava’s and have her shorten it.” He smiled innocently at the glare he received and then ducked out of the tent.

When he returned, Olivier was sprawled on his bunk his tunic too large on her smaller frame. He would have thought she looked adorable, had he not been so worried about the heat. He gave her the water and arranged cool cloths under her knees and arms as she drank. When she lay back down he added one to her forehead.

Satisfied with his work, he sank down beside the bunk and took her hand. “I’m so glad you’re here.” He murmured, resting his head against their clasped hands.

She smiled, genuinely, and murmured back. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, reviews are greatly appreciated! :)


	14. War Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's been a while, but here's a new chapter for you all.
> 
> Happy reading!

Mustang cleared his throat, calling the assembled clerics and generals to attention. “Right. So the first thing we need to discuss is the proposal of establishing an Ishvalan government here. Captain, would you?”

Hawkeye left her place behind him to begin distributing copies of the proposal.

Scar only glanced at his copy he had translated it into Amestrian on Miles’ behalf, and was well familiar with the document. He had been pleased to see his Master had persuaded some of the harder old-fashioned clerics to accept a softer interpretation of Ishvalan law.

They all took a few minutes to review in relative silence. Listening to the rustling papers and soft murmurs Scar wondered if he should even be here. He was regarded as a liaison between the Amestrians and Ishvalans, but it was an unofficial position, to be sure.

“If I may, a point of clarification-” Tava began, but was interrupted by Blackburn.

“Don’t worry, missy, if you don’t understand, this is complicated stuff.” Only his glance at Armstrong told Scar he meant _for women_ and not _for Ishvalans_. 

Scar winced and watched Armstrong restrain herself, a vein popping dangerously in her pale forehead.

“A point of clarification,” Tava pressed on stubbornly. “If the people make choices that the Amestrian government doesn’t agree with, what happens? It’s quite vague.”

“It, well-” Mustang faltered. “It depends on the type of decision. As of right now, Ishval is a sector of Amestris, whether that will change remains to be seen, but as of right now it is a sector. Certain decisions, like how you allocate funds for roads or rivers or what have you, are entirely up to you, though Central will be more than happy to provide you with experts to assist. On the other hand, what determines a capital offense is strictly defined and cannot be changed. At one point in time, I believe, blasphemy against Ishvala was considered a capital offense, though not for centuries, I know.” He cut off their hasty protests. “But, if you were to try and change it back into one Central would send officials to try and persuade you. Ultimately, it would probably spark the dissolution of ties between our peoples, but we would only enact military force if we are attacked first, and then only in equal measure.” 

“Thank you for your clarification.” She turned her head back to the paper, thoughtfully. She fidgeted with the end of her braid as she thought, and Scar noticed she had affixed a red and gold ornament to it. It made rather a pretty picture, he thought, the silver hair twining around her dark fingers and the jewels of the ornament glittering as it twirled.

Miles cleared his throat pointedly, and Scar had to force himself not to startle. “If you would, Master Scar,” there was a definite twinkle in Miles’ eyes and Scar felt invisible heat on his cheeks, wishing the colonel would have worn goggles, “there’s some tricky wording in the third paragraph. Seeing as you translated it-”

“Of course.” Scar cleared his throat and bent his head over the document and tried not to think about _why_ he’d found Miss Tava’s hair so distracting.

\---

By the time evening came around Scar was more than happy to leave entertaining the generals to Miles and the clerics. He had arranged to meet Mei before supper to go over her latest translations. He blinked in shock and swallowed a sudden lump in his throat when he saw her. She was wearing, not her usual Xingese clothing, but trousers and a hooded tunic typical of Ishvalan women. She smiled somewhat timidly at him.

“Mei you look-” he paused seeking the right words, “very grownup.” He cringed as her face crinkled in confusion. “I mean, you look lovely.”

She beamed. “Thanks, Scar!” She threw her arms around him and he managed not to stagger. “Miss Tava made it for me!” She pulled away. “Um, I should have asked, but I invited her over for dinner, is that alright?”

“Oh." His stomach did a strange thing he couldn't account for. "Of course it is.”

“I invited Mister Xander, too. I’ve been helping with the really little ones down at the school and he’s been really kind and-”

“It’s fine, Mei.” He glanced around, “I guess we’ll have to wait for that translation, though. I hadn’t planned to cook tonight.”

“I went by the commissary and got extra vegetables!” Mei offered. “They’re a bt stingy with the meat, though.”

Scar nodded and they set to work. Before long Tava and Xander arrived and, ignoring Scar’s objections, began helping with the stew. Tava showed Mei how to add the spices just so, and Xander took over stirring.

“Did you hear Dr. Marcoh is coming?” Mei asked, breaking the pleasant silence that had fallen.

“No.” Scar’s eyes shot to her, surprised. “When?”

“When Mr. Mustang’s team is allowed to come, he’s coming!” Mei beamed.

“Ah.”

“Has it been established that ‘Mr. Mustang’s’ team is coming?” Tava asked, perhaps a bit sharply.

Scar raised his hands placatingly. “That has yet to be determined. At the end of the week the vote will be taken. Let’s not jump to conclusions.”

“Sorry, Scar.” Mei blushed. “I just really hope I get to see him again. I miss him.”

“I do, as well.” Scar stared into the flames. “But, there’s a lot more to it than that.”

“Who is Dr. Marcoh, again?” Xander asked, taking a sip of stew straight from the ladle.

“He was one of the creators of the Ishvalan Philosopher’s stone.”

Aghast, Xander choked, spewing his stew back into the pot.

“Ew, Mr. Xander!”

“Sorry, Miss Mei.” He turned to Scar. “You’re friends with this man?”

“He’s come a long way.” Scar intoned. “He has tried to make recompense, though he acknowledges the impossibility of the feat.” Xander stared at him.

“We all have our demons to overcome.” Tava murmured gently, shifting and resettling her crutch.

Scar watched her, suddenly curious. “Miss Tava, if I may-”

“What happened to my leg?” Tava gave a wry grin.

Scar nodded, abashed. “I realize that’s a very sensitive question.” He raised a finger to touch his namesake injury. “The war made wounds on us all.”

“It wasn’t the war.” Tava shook her head. “Not directly.” She stared into the flames, barely acknowledging the bowl of stew Xander pressed into her hands. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze and she continued. “When my father left hiding to appeal to Fuhrer Bradley, I argued with him. I was afraid that, well-” she laughed shakily, “you know what happened. We traveled as close to the military encampments as we dared, and then when he went to leave I tried to grab him and prevent him from leaving. I fell and my leg caught on a Temero cacti--you know what those are, don’t you, Mei?”

“They’re the little ones with the red-tipped needles, right? They have poison in the barbs?”

“That’s right.” Tava nodded. “It probably would have been fine if I’d gotten it treated right away, but I took Ilya and went as far away as I could, just like my father told me to. We heard there were doctors in Kanda, so that’s where we went. By the time we got there, the leg had to be amputated. The doctors did it so I could get automail down the road, if I ever had the opportunity. They were Amestrians, Yuri and-”

“Sara Rockbell.” Scar breathed, feeling like a knife had gone through him. He wondered if that feeling would ever fade.

“Do you know them? Are they well? I think I’d like to thank them, if they are.”

Scar shook his head, unable to speak.

“Those are Winry’s parents aren’t they?” Mei asked quietly. “The ones who-”

“Yes, Mei.” Scar shuddered. “Miss Tava, you won’t be able to thank them. They died--were killed--less than a month after they treated you.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. They have a daughter, though? Maybe I can write her, then.”

“You should.” Scar struggled to speak around his tongue which has suddenly gone parched and sticks to the roof of his mouth. “That would be kind.”

“Are you alright, Scar?” Xander was studying him, and Scar was sure he was putting the pieces together.

“No.” He stood abruptly. “Miss Tava, you won’t be able to thank the Rockbells, because I killed them. I’m sorry.” He stomped into his tent. Ignoring the quiet muttering outside, he sank to the ground, head in hands.

It grew quiet outside and he sat, breathing heavily, for an unknown length of time, lost to the world. He lifted his head only when the door flap of his tent lifted, and someone stepped in.

“Not now, Mei.” He muttered, eyes still closed.

“I’m not Mei.” There was a soft, but distinctive, set of footsteps coming toward him. “Are you alright, Scar?” Perhaps, if he had been more focused he would have noticed she had dropped the honorific that she normally placed, so properly and politely, before his name.

“No.” He looked up slowly. “I’m not, Tava. I’m really not.”

With a soft thump she lowered herself to the ground before him. “Hmm, remind me to get you a rug. It’s sandy in here.”

Scar gave a slight snort. “I suppose we could requisition the Colonel’s tent.”

“We could.” Tava smiled faintly. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“The tent?” Scar stalled. Tava gave him a stern look, one honed by years of parenting her young cousin. “No. The Rockbells were good people, they didn’t deserve what happened to them.”

“Neither did you. Neither did I.” Tava reached out, but her fingers stopped short of touching his arm. “Like you said, the war made wounds on us all.”

“They were trying to do good. To treat both sides, to show love in a world of hate.”

“Now that’s what we need to do.” Tava retracted her hand and dropped it in her lap. “Show love to both sides, even when it’s the hardest thing we can do.”

“I know.” Scar frowned. “I’ll never be able to atone for what I’ve done. No matter what.”

“But,” Tava held up a finger, suddenly imitating Cleric Lowe’s famous oratory style, “you can be forgiven.” When that got no reaction, she dropped her finger. “I mean it, Scar. You can move on.”

“Maybe.”

“You can.” Tava repeated, emphatically. “You have to.”

“Do I now?” Scar snorted.

“Yes.” Tava reached over and tapped his forehead. “If you don’t, none of us will ever be able to.”

“What makes me so special?”

“You survived the war, lost yourself, and then found your way back here. Allied with the very people who killed your family, and scarred your face. All for the sake of your people. So, you tell me, what makes you so special?”

Scar had no response, so Tava tapped his forehead one more time, before rising and exiting the tent. “Goodnight, Scar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think! :)
> 
> If anyone's interested, I finally got around to actually using my tumblr. It doesn't have too much, but if you're curious why chapters take so long right now, or want to see pictures of my dogs you can find me at: proverbialhatstand.tumblr.com


	15. On the Horizon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter for you! Happy reading!

Scar restlessly crossed the camp. The hazy light of the post-dusk night was usually his favorite time of day, the tents glowed with lanterns and cook fires filled the camp with the spicy, smoky, scents of Ishvalan cooking, but he couldn’t enjoy it with his conversation with Tava turning over in his head. The sounds of an argument had him turning down a canvas alleyway.

“-Cavorting about with this, this soldier!” An older woman’s shrill voice snarled angrily.

“Auntie, please!” A much younger woman practically whispered, soft and somewhat mortified. “It isn’t-”

Scar wove through the tents until he found the group. The older Ishvalan woman was brandishing a cane at a nervous-looking soldier and the younger woman, whose cheeks were almost as red as her eyes. Upon closer investigation, he recognized the soldier as Sergeant Roach.

“What’s wrong, Ma’am?” Scar asked politely, effectively cutting off the argument.

“What’s wrong?! What’s wrong?!” The old woman snarled. “This soldier is trying to seduce this poor innocent girl-”

“Auntie, that’s not-” the young woman covered her face in embarrassment.

“Sir, if I may.” Roach cut in, nervously. “I was only trying to walk Miss Ayia home. I didn’t realize that was so improprietous.” He gave a nervous laugh and runs his fingers through his hair. “I guess I should have paid more attention to the Colonel’s lectures.”

“It’s not improprietous, if that’s all you were doing.” Scar frowned darkly at him. “Was it?” Both the soldier and Ayia nodded rapidly.

“Teh!” The older woman snorted derisively.

“Please, Master Scar,” the young woman whispered around her fingers, “[Li-Sergeant Roach really was just being kind. Please don’t get him in trouble.]”

Scar glanced at Roach and then spoke in Ishvalan, “[If you’re certain-]”

“[Yes!]”

“[I object.]” The old woman interjected, tersely.

“[Are you Miss Ayia’s guardian?]” Scar inquired. He hadn’t met Ayia before, but she looked more than old enough to be an adult.

“[I was.]” She snorted angrily. “[But, according to _Amestrian_ law she’s an adult, so no longer needs me.]”

“[Auntie, I didn’t mean-]” Ayia tried, gently.

“Bah!” Ayia’s aunt turned away angrily. Ayia’s face fell, and tears glimmered in her eyes.

“Mistress Zara-” Sergeant Roach stepped forward, but stopped when Ayia gave him a wide-eyed look.

“Perhaps Miss Ayia should return to her tent with Mistress Zara. Sergeant Roach will return to his tent.” Scar rumbled. “And we can move on.” He received three tense nods and, satisfied, continued on his way.

\---

“Miles!”

Miles jerked awake, sitting upright and blinking in the predawn darkness. “Hm, wha-? Gah?”

“How articulate.” A coolly amused voice sounded above his head.

“Mmph. Liv?” He rubbed his eyes tiredly. “What are you-?” He shook his head and licked his dry lips. Olivier pressed a glass of water into his hand and he drank it gratefully.

“I brought your personal effects from Briggs.” He frowned at her, and fumbled for his watch. She snorted. “I left them on the convoy truck and they’re trying to leave this morning. They woke me to deliver them.”

“And you decided to repay the favor, I see.” Miles pushed himself out of bed and gathered his hair in a loose ponytail. “Just my books, then?”

“Civvies, too. I’ve recommissioned your room at Briggs.” Miles stopped fumbling for a shirt and looked at her. “I sent Buccaneer’s things to his family. You don’t have a home address, though, so I-”

“You didn’t send things to my mother’s house?”

“No, your immediate family is listed as Mira Miles. I didn’t want the hassle of trying to track down a woman who doesn’t exist. It might raise unnecessary questions.”

Miles glanced around as though there might be a soldier peering in the narrow slit of his doorway and then closed the distance between them with a swift kiss. “I’m sorry, my love.”

She nodded. “I had them bring the boxes to the doorway, but I didn’t think you’d want a stream of sergeants bringing boxes and admiring your-” her eyes flicked over his ratty trousers and bare chest, “-pajamas.” He chuckled and resumed his search for real clothing. “I’ll help you bring them in, though, if you’d like.”

“Yes, please.”

They completed the task without talking, as the camp slowly came to life around them. By the time the last box of books was stowed, Scar had begun a pot of coffee and was watching them with his customary scowl on his face. Miles wasn’t sure if he was in a bad mood, or if it was just his face. He ducked back out of his tent, with a book in his hand.

“Good morning, Scar.” He smiled pleasantly as he dropped down beside the fire. “Is the coffee ready?” Olivier waved a brief farewell as she crossed the camp, gold mane swaying in her wake.

“It’s percolating.” Scar grunted, eyeing the book curiously.

Miles held it out and Scar took it, running his fingers over the leather binding and gilded lettering. “This was my grandfather’s” he explained, “I don’t remember taking it to Briggs, honestly, but I thought you might enjoy it. It’s in the Old Tongue, and I’m afraid I never had the knack for it.”

Scar glanced at the book, but nodded to Olivier’s retreating figure. “What was she doing here?”

“She brought my things from Briggs. They needed the room for my replacement.” He nodded toward the book. “Go on, take a look if you like.”

Scar undid the ribbon holding it shut and read the hand-inked inscription in the front. “Who was your grandfather?”

“His name was Ronan Zharad.” Miles poured himself a cup of coffee and sipped it. “Why?”

“He translated The Ancient Springs, didn’t he?”

Miles nodded, eyebrows rising. “Yes, how did you-?”

“We used his translation at the temple. I didn’t realize he was your grandfather.” Scar turned the pages almost reverently, admiring the writings in the margins. “Do you have others like this?”

Miles nodded. “My grandmother has his most valued books, he wanted them out of Ishval for fear of them being destroyed.”

Scar’s face lit with an emotion Miles almost didn’t recognize on his battered face; hope. “Many of our great works are considered lost. The clerics and Tava would be overjoyed-”

“Tava now is it?” Miles asked, lips twitching. Scar scowled at him. Miles held up a hand, apologetically. “I’ll write my grandmother and ask her to send some.”

“Thank you.” Scar held the book out for Miles to take, but he pushed it back.

“Hold onto it, if you’d like. The Old Tongue gives me headaches.”

Nodding his gratitude, Scar rose and took the book into his tent. He wrapped it in a clean shirt and tucked it carefully into his foot locker. When he returned to the fire, Miles was studying a photograph that must have been in his books. Scar glanced over his shoulder carefully, and saw that it was of a crew of Briggs’ soldiers. Some, like Miles and Armstrong, he recognized, others were unfamiliar to him. Miles face was oddly distorted, both wistful and pained.

“This thing with Armstrong-”

Miles’ head snapped up, and he folded the photo along a worn crease. “What thing?”

Scar’s brow rose at the sharp response. “She came on such short notice, brought you your things, personally.” He watched Miles’ brow crease in confusion. “She’s donated so much money. It’s awfully kind.”

“Yes, it is.” Miles agreed. “What are you getting at, brother? Come out and say it.”

“It isn’t some sort of,” he pondered his words carefully, “control thing is it?”

“It-what?”

“The war is over, you don’t need her ‘help’, if it is.”

“Ah.”

“I mean it.” Scar persisted, trying to read Miles’ face, but t was inscrutable. “You don’t owe her anything.”

"That’s where you’re wrong,” Miles drained his coffee and rose. “I owe her everything.” He smiled brightly and handed Scar the now-empty mug. “Your turn for dish duty, I think. I’ll see you at the meeting.”

Scar scowled as the Colonel walked away. _Well,_ he thought, _that answered nothing._

\---

“I am grateful to have this opportunity today.” Mustang addressed the crowded meeting hall, voice quavering ever so slightly. “I know the kindness you are showing me in allowing me to be here today is beyond what I deserve.”

A soft murmur rippled through the tent. A few rows behind him, Scar heard Altan muttering something in the affirmative.

“On behalf of Fuhrer Grumman I applaud your steadfast spirit, your heartiness, and your valor. You have achieved much, overcome much. And, with great sorrow, I admit you still have much left to overcome. Which is why we, why I am here. To offer further aid. At the end of the week you will have your opportunity to cast your vote and decide, as a people, how you would like to proceed. Colonel Miles will be explaining the logistics of each choice, but in essence there are three: Choice one is to accept the greater aid being offered by the Amestrian military, which will involve a greater military presence, but also more resources. Choice two is to keep things the same. And, choice three, is to reject all military help and be left to your own devices.” Mustang stopped and looked at his hands, shaking as they clutched the edge of the podium. “I want to say, for the military, but even more for myself, that I’m sorry. Nothing I can ever do can atone for what I have done. I have no right, so I will not ask your forgiveness. Please know, I am deeply, truly, grieved by the loss you have endured--that I have aided in bringing about. If you chose option one, I will do everything in my power, little that it may be, to ensure your people, no people, ever suffers as you have done.” He drew a shuddering breath. “Thank you.”

Mustang and Miles traded places with a brief salute and Miles began to explain their options, speaking in steady Ishvalan.

“[He speaks as one of us, but he cannot be.]” Scar shifted as he heard Altan mutter to one of his friends.

“[Aye.]” The friend whispered back. “[He’s not even recognized!]”

“[I heard he was.]” A third responded, sounding darkly amused. “[But, then the IPM got him.]”

“[Good on them, then.]” Altan snorted, a little too loudly to be whispering an longer. “[Pity he lived.]”

Irritated, Scar turned around to glare at them. Altan gave him a slight smirk, and Scar saw Ilya beside him, silent, but hanging on the man’s every word. “[Ilya.]” Scar whispered. “[Come here.]” Ilya shook his head. “[Where’s Miss Tava? Come here.]”

Altan snickered and patted Ilya on the back. The young boy gave a slight smile, pleased. “[Ignore him, Ilya.]” Altan smirked. “[See how he doesn’t wear his sash? He’s forsaken by Ishvala, for allying to Amestris.]” Ilya’s eyes went wide and then he glared at Scar.

“[That’s not why, you little-]” Scar snarled, perhaps louder than he meant to. “[Ilya, don’t listen to him! Come!]”

“[Do you wish to speak, Master Scar?]” Scar felt like a naughty school boy at Miles’ gently chiding tone from the front of the tent.

“[Sorry, Master Miles.]” He turned to face the front. Several Ishvalans chuckled. The majority of the Amestrian soldiers are blinking, bewildered, but a slight smirk played across Armstrong’s face. “[Please go on.]” He ignored the snickering behind him and focused as Miles cleared his throat and began to explain their next option.

An idea began to form in his head. He was not exactly _happy_ about it, but for the good of the people, he’d do whatever it took. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, goodness, Scar gets the wrong end of the stick a bit, doesn't he?
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please do let me know what you think!


	16. Promise Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I, uh, don't know if this chapter makes any sense. It's approximately the fifth permutation and they're all running together. Nevertheless, I hope you all enjoy it!

The temple echoed with the lilting chants of Ishvala’s sacred texts, and Roy Mustang didn’t understand a word of it. His rudimentary education in the language was far from good enough to follow the ceremony, but the air of solemnity was not lost in him. The ceremony had been explained to him, not the typical Recognition ceremony that children went through, but the ceremony of sons lost and now returned.

Even with the solemn atmosphere and the pomp and circumstance, he couldn’t help the smirk that stole across his face every time Miles had to participate in the ceremony. While both he and Scar looked a little out of place in their simply embroidered white robes, Scar had a solemn grace that became his status as a former priest. Miles, on the other hand, kept stifling awkward little coughs and sneezes in the hazy incense-filled air.

When the priest drizzled oil on his head to represent blessings, Miles scrunched his eyes shut and spluttered on the bit that trickled into his mouth. He recovered nicely went it was time for his recitation, though, and Roy had to admit he had a pleasant timbre and a skill for chanting.

Movement in the corner of his eye drew his attention to Olivier seated beside him. He hadn’t expected her to be particularly interested in the ceremony, but she was intently focused, her blue eyes fixed on Miles bowed head, her face unreadable. Roy glanced to his other side and Hawkeye gave him a slight smile before turning her gaze pointedly to the altar.

\---

The cool air of the night was a welcome relief after the stifling heat of the temple, and Scar breathed deeply. Not ready to return to his tent, he strolled around the circumference of the camp, watching contentedly as his people chattered to each other over their cook fires and sang and celebrated, and lived their lives. Passing what ought to have been an empty he was startled by an unexpected voice.

“General you do remember our little deal, don’t you?” The oily tones had to be Blackburn and he froze, instinctively suspicious.

“Of course.” Armstrong responded, and Scar’s uneasiness turned to anger.

“Of course you do,” Blackburn acquiesced easily, “it’s just it seems I’m taking on a lot of risk for this.”

“Well, with the way things are shaking out after that, ah, unpleasantness with High Command we have to take on a certain amount of risk.”

“I understand of course, but it still seems like I am taking on more risk than-”

“Tch! You’re a coward.”

“I don’t see you volunteering to-”

“I don’t think this is the correct setting for this conversation, Sir.” There was a tense snort and then silence.

Scar hastened across the camp, searching for Miles. He was so focused on his task he nearly walked past Tava without hearing her call his name.

“That was beautiful.”

Scar stopped and turned to her. She was wearing a beautifully embroidered tunic and her hair, glowing silver in the moonlight,r was freed from her braid, framing her face. The overheard conversation suddenly seemed distant and unimportant. “I’m glad you thought so, Miss Tava-” he stopped and smiled at the look she gave him, _“Tava.”_

“That was very brave of you and Colonel Miles. I understand how difficult it must have been to go through with the ceremony.”

“Thank you, Tava.” He reached out and then swiftly retracted his hand. Tava frowned at the movement, but he interjected before she could speak.”I do need to speak to you about Ilya.”

Her frowned deepened. “He’s still hanging around Altan, I know. I’ve tried, I just don’t know what to do.”

“I’ve spoken to Cleric Xander, but perhaps we should speak to Master.”

She nodded, “Xander thinks he needs a father figure.”

“Tava-” She tipped her face up toward him, red eyes uncharacteristically wide. Scar shook his head. “I’m sorry. Raising your cousin on your own must have been very difficult for you.”

She bit her lip. “It still is.” Scar nodded, at a loss for words. “I want automail.”

He blinked rapidly. “What?”

“I-” she stared at the ground, “I want an automail leg. It’s Amestrian science, but there are so many amputees. No one wants to be the first, but I’ll do it. I can be brave, show our people it’s alright.”

“Tava you don’t have to-”

“I want to.” She looked up at him, such fiery determination in her eyes, that Scar’s protest died on his lips.

“I know a mechanic.” He said instead, with difficulty. His throat had gone very dry.

“Would they treat an Ishvalan?”

“I think so.” He swallowed. “After the inspection is done, I’ll contact her and see.”

“I’ve been saving up, but it’s not a lot.” Tava reached up to tug at her braid, but her fingers closed awkwardly on thin air and she blushed.

“We’ll find a way.” Scar told her, not certain if he wanted her blush to be because she was uncomfortable talking about money or if he would prefer to be about something _else_. “Goodnight, Tava.”

She smiled, and he knew he wanted that to always be because of him. “Goodnight, Scar.”

He stood watching her leave for longer than he cared to admit, before he remembered he needed to speak to Miles. He hurried to the Colonel’s tent and yanked the door flap open. He dropped it again immediately and stood there staring at the fabric in shock. The very person he had come to warn Miles about was inside, holding tightly to the front of Miles’ robe, forcing him to bend to her level.

Scar hadn’t been able to see their faces, but when he reopened the tent flap with every intention of breaking up what had to be an ugly argument, he was shocked to find their faces now so close they were touching. Not only touching, but kissing. He shut the flap again and retreated to his own tent. He didn’t trust her at all, but if she had managed to seduce Miles (who he remembered angrily, was married) he would need a different approach. He didn’t sleep well that night.

\---

The following morning brought an opportunity Scar had not considered. Amidst all the various training and sparring matches he observed Armstrong without an opponent. He offered to spar her without a second thought. Her mouth twitched into a smirk and she nodded.

“I’ve been hoping to have this opportunity.” She commented, selecting a foil from the weapons stash. “I’ve heard rumors of your prowess, I’d like to see if they’re unfounded.”

“Likewise.” Scar abandoned his jacket. “I’ll not use my array to harm you, but I have no intention of holding back.”

“Excellent.” Her grin was wild, wolfish, and swift. She attacked first, hoping to throw him on the defensive. Defense wasn’t his strong suite so he struck back. She was a fierce opponent, with a good chance of beating him. Until he grabbed her sword and shattered it with his brother’s arm. Without it, she had to rely on brute strength, something she didn’t have nearly as much of as he did.

Olivier took up a defensive strategy, obviously hoping to wear him out. She ducked and wove with truly impressive speed and agility. They gathered quite a crowd, though neither of them acknowledged it. The fight dragged on longer than he would have liked, and Scar began to fear he would tire out. But then, there was a split second where she gave him an opening, swiping at the hair which clung to her, angry, sweat-soaked face, and he dove.

His right hand closed firmly on her throat and he threw her to the ground. She reached up to throw him off, but he caught her arms with his left and drove his knee into her solar plexus. He felt the air rush out of her. The hand on her neck tightened, and for a split second rage flowed through him and he thought how easy it would be to simply kill her. She seemed to understand his thoughts, because her blue eyes widened and he saw in them something he doubted many, if any, other men had seen there: _fear._

The rage went out of him as swiftly as it came, and he loosened his grip on her. Not enough to let her up, but enough that she knew he had no plan to kill her and he wouldn’t choke her while he decided. He leaned down to whisper in her ear, a deep rumbling warning, too quiet for anyone else to hear.

“I don’t know what you’re playing at, General, but stay away from Miles.” She blinked once, twice, three times, as close to a nod as she could manage, pinned to the ground and fast running out of air. He got off her chest and released her. She pushed herself up on her elbows as he rose, fast enough that her head swam. “Good match.” He held his hand out, betraying nothing to the onlookers. She gripped it and he pulled her to her feet.

“Likewise.” Her voice was raspy and she touched her throat with a pained grimace. “It’s been a long time since I’ve lost a match; I commend you.” They bowed stiffly to each other and exited the ring.

Cleric Xander caught his arm as he tried to head back to his tent. “What was that?” He asked, crimson eyes narrowed.

“What was what?” Scar tried, half-heartedly, to pull away, but the young priest was a warrior, too, and his tired efforts had no effect.

“You’re the one always going on about how we need the Amestrians, but you were about to _kill_ her.”

“She was in no danger.”

“I’m supposed to believe that?”

“What do you mean by that?” Silence. “You don’t trust me?”

“It’s not that, brother, but you aren’t exactly a peaceful man. You’ve killed-”

“That was the past.”

“I know.” The younger man released his arm with a sigh. “I just pray it stays that way. Ishvala be with you.” He bowed and slipped away.

\---

Olivier rubbed her wrist and then throat absently; the vice-like grip that had nearly bruised her wrist was long gone, but a phantom ache remained. She was grateful, at least, that she had spoken to Miles before Scar had gone after her. The pain in her throat might have made her decision even more difficult.

_“We need to talk.”_

_Miles took one look at her face and stopped fussing with the hand towel he was using to scrub the oil off his face. “What about?” She didn’t say anything, so he stepped toward her, hands outstretched. “Love, I know something has been bothering you, but I don’t know what. I need-”_

_“You don’t need me.”_

_He was caught off guard, blinking rapidly and then frowning, “What?”_

_“You’re thriving here. In your homeland, with your people. I spent all these years preparing you for this, and now you don’t need me.”_

_“No.” Miles reached for her, but she stepped backward. He froze, feeling like he had a knife in his heart. “I still need you. I still love you.”_

_“It’s alright.” She sounded so tired, and also so sincere. “I’ve known this day was coming for a long time now.” She reached out to gently squeeze Miles’ hands. “Go. Live in the Ishvalan sunlight, it’ll only burn me.”_

_Miles exhaled slowly. “What are you saying?”_

_She held out a chain to him, her wedding band swinging in the space between them. “I’m releasing you from your vows. You’re free now, my love.”_

_“No.” Instead of the chain of her ring, his fingers tightened around her wrist. “I’m not releasing you.” He glared at her with a ferocity she had only ever seen aimed at enemies. “You took a vow, too. You swore to me until death-” he broke off. She shifted, feeling as vulnerable as though his red gaze could pierce her soul. “Why are you doing this?”_

_“I told you, you no longer need me. There’s no one left for me to shield you from. You have your own command and your people here. You don’t need a marriage to protect you.”_

_“I see.” Miles didn’t loose his hold on her wrist, though. “Do you really think I only married you for protection?”_

_She shrugged. “I think you were lonely and afraid, and I took advantage of that.”_

_Miles studied her, before slowly nodding. “I need you to do one last thing for me.” She nodded. “Look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t love me.” Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second and then she glared more fiercely. “Look me in the eye and tell me that this isn’t because you have some foolish idea that you can somehow protect me. Tell me I‘m not good enough for you.Tell me that, and I’ll-” he swallowed and continued determinedly, “I’ll let you go. But, if you can’t tell me that, if this is because you have some idiotic concept of protecting me, then I will never forgive you.”_

_Olivier felt a wave of cold, all the way down to her toes. Her lips parted, but she couldn’t seem to form words._

_“I love you every bit as much, if not more, in the blazing sands of Ishval as I did in the freezing snows of Briggs. I miss you every day, and some days it takes everything I have not to get on the first train North, orders be hanged! So-” he yanked her wrist and she tipped forward unsteadily, “ don’t you ever insult me by thinking I only married you because I had to.”_

_“I-” She swallowed, and shook her head, “I don’t-”_

_“I know.” He finally released her wrist and stepped back. She staggered and caught herself on the front of his robe. He bent to look her in the eye. “I know that you’re planning something and it won’t end well. I know you’re afraid and you’re lying to me. I love you.”_

_“This doesn’t change anything, Miles. I have to leave you.”_

_“I know that, too.” He smiled sadly. “Just not yet. When the time comes, I won’t hold you back, but for now, stay.”_

_She closed her eyes and he pressed his lips to hers. When they broke apart her whispered answer was a promise,_

_“Until death.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...yeah...
> 
> Please let me know what you think! Also, tell me what you think is going on, I'm curious what you all think! :)


	17. Within

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter for you all! 
> 
> Just a reminder the square brackets [like this] are used when it's important to know the characters are speaking in Ishvalan. :)
> 
> Happy Reading!

“Are you prepared, Alchemist, to face what you’ve done?”

At the question, Mustang swallowed and nodded, his face ashen. Scar watched him, intense red stare burning into his memory. Scar wasn’t sure he was ready, but this had been part of the agreement to allow Mustang and his team to physically join the rebuilding. They clambered into the back of a dusty transport truck.

Miles dropped onto the bench across from Scar, Clerics Xander and Iroh joined him, and Mustang and Hawkeye take up the remaining bench seats, while Olivier opts for the rear-facing seat, arms crossed in front of her. The Grand Cleric rode up front with Breda, who cranked the key in the engine and started their voyage across the desert. It was early morning, dark and chilly, and they had a long way to go. The sun rose, painting the sands a glowing orange, before anyone spoke again.

Miles leaned across the way to Scar.“[Are you alright, brother?]”

Scar only nodded in unconvincing response. Silence fell again, thick and heavy.

_Carnage._ Even years later, half-buried in sand, the ruins of Kanda could only be described as carnage. Burned and bullet-riddled, the wreckage of Scar’s ancestral home was a horrifying thing to behold.

His old master hung close to Scar as the group began to walk through the ruins. Mustang’s head was bowed, and Hawkeye gripped his elbow to support him, her hand clenched so tightly her nails dug into his skin.

Grief weighed on them and they began to wander through the region, each lost in their own thoughts, regrets, and memories. Somehow, it was easier than Scar had imagined to be there. In the quiet of the desert, the war seemed distant and he remembered pleasant times before it, and emotions he could not name brought him to his knees. His old master sank down beside him, paying his aged bones no mind and began murmuring prayers. Scar sat and listened and _remembered._

\---

Miles found Olivier sitting against a wall in a shaded corner in what must have once been a house. Her white great coat was over most of her face, trying to keep the sun off her skin. He smirked and sank down beside her. 

“You didn’t have to come, you know.”

She scowled at him. “I owe it to the people of Ishval to not avert my face.”

He nodded, “I know, dear.” He glanced around, confirming they were not in eyesight and then took her hands. His smile turned into a frown when her sleeve fell back revealing faint bruising on her wrist. He brought it to his lips and kissed it gently. “I’m so sorry, my love.”

“You were right, I shouldn’t have-”

“It doesn’t matter, love,” he shook his head, bitterly, “I hurt you. I love you, and I still lost my temper and hurt you. That’s unforgivable.”

“I forgive you.” Miles stared at her, and she smiled, leaning forward to press her lips to his. “Don’t look at me like that, I _am_ capable of it.”

“I still shouldn’t-”

“I already forgave you, Miles. Why are we still discussing this?”

Miles shook his head and kissed her again. His hand wound to the back of her neck and when they broke apart, his forehead came to rest against hers. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

“You must have made Ishvala angry.”

Miles looked half affronted, half exasperated. “Liv,” he huffed, “you can’t say things like that!”

She chuckled. “Now you’re telling me what to do?”

“I suppose my command is going to my head,” he murmured, kissing her again.

He felt her smile against his lips. “I suppose it has.”

“Don’t go getting ideas about leaving me.”

“I won’t.” She shifted to rest her head on his shoulder and groaned. “It’s too hot here, I can’t sleep.”

“Is that the real reason?” He wrapped his arms around her shoulders and pulled her closer.

“Hmm?”

“You’re not having nightmares?”

“Tch! You’ve been listening to Karley again, haven’t you?”

“No, I just know you.” Miles sighed quietly, “it’s concerning that it’s gotten bad enough you think Karley knows.” Olivier huffed, but didn’t say anything. Miles, knowing she wouldn’t talk unless she was ready, kissed the top of her head and murmured, “rest now, if you can.”

\---

“Today, our conditions have been met. After our sojourn into the desert, the other clerics and I had a lengthy interview with Roy Mustang and several of his men. By the words of our Creator we have judged them and found them to be sincere. In light of this, we are pleased to extend an invitation to our friend, to join us in our rebuilding efforts!”

The Grand Cleric’s proclamation was met mostly by applause, but there were several who were silent, and a few who openly jeered.

He smiled, gentle benevolence in the face of adversity, “Tonight, blessed of Ishvala, we celebrate!”

The response was much more enthusiastic following the second pronouncement. Scar barely suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. He was never fond of celebrations--except for the High Holy Days--they were entirely too raucous for his taste.

He, nevertheless, kept himself busy with the last minute preparations. They decided to set up just outside the camp. Everyone pitched in, dragging out spare tables and chairs, or whipping up homemade goods to share; the commissary relaxed their rationing to dispense extra sweets, and Cleric Xander produced a surprising amount of wine. Anyone with musical abilities volunteered their services, while the priests pulled out old sacred texts to read, and debated the blessings they wanted to use.

“Master Scar?” Scar turned away from the soldier who was trying to ask him for help, and pivoted toward the familiar voice of Tava. She smiled, and there was a kind of twinkle in her eye that Scar couldn’t identify, “I’m sorry to trouble you, but I was asked to loan some of my handweaving to cover the tables. Would you mind taking them down there? I would, except I need to finish these pastries.”

“I would be honored.”

As he carried the heavy bundle of cloth out of the camp he heard the soldier who had been trying to flag him down mutter something that sounded oddly like “excuse me for not being pretty!” Deeming the sentence too illogical to have been heard correctly, Scar ignored him.

When he was finished with the table coverings, Scar retreated to lean against one of the military trucks and watch the celebration unfold. It wasn’t long before dancing started and he scowled irritably. Across the camp, he saw Ilya standing with a cluster of young men, who looked just as sour as he did, though he suspected their reasons were very different.

“Reconsidering?”

Scar turned to see a friend of Altan had sidled up to him, sipping a beer. He snorted, “reconsidering what?”

“What side you’re on, of course.”

“There are no sides here,” Scar sighed, “we all have the same goal: rebuilding Ishval.”

“So they say, but are you really willing to put your faith in Amestrians?”

“My faith is in Ishvala. I trust she has sent them to us.”

“I believe that, too.” Scar furrowed his brow in confusion at the man’s smug tone. The young man tipped his beer to him, “have a blessed night, brother.”

Scar stared after him.

\---

The night had worn on and the sun was setting before anyone else interrupted his solitude. “What are you doing over here by yourself?”

“Hmm?”

Tava chuckled. “The dance floor is over there,” she tilted her head toward it, “and you’re over here. Why’s that?”

“You answered your own question, Tava.”

<>Her cheek dimpled when she smiled, and Scar wondered that he had never noticed it before. “You should go dance, there are quite a few lovely young ladies who are bereft of partners.”

He shrugged noncommittally.

“What about Rebecca or Maria?”

“Who?”

She laughed, “not them, then. What about that General Armstong? She’s certainly beautiful.”

“Not my type.” Scar cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. _Where did that come from?!_

“No?” Tava smirked, “what is your type, then? Perhaps Miss Ayia?” When he remained silent, she nudged his shoulder gently with her own. “Come on, tell me! There must be someone you’d like to dance with.”

“Why don’t you go dance, if you’re so interested!” Her soft gasp went through him like a knife. He whirled to her, horrified. “I am so sorry! I didn’t mean-”

She shrugged, but he didn’t miss the way she was hunched over, closed in on herself, protectively. “I’ll leave you in peace.”

“Wait!” Scar caught her arm, barely believing himself. “Come here.”

_“What?”_

“Here.” He didn’t know what he was doing. He was in helplessly far over his head, but he guided her arms to his shoulders anyway. He carefully leaned her crutch on the truck. Gently, nervously, he gripped her waist and spun.

Her foot left the ground as he twirled her effortlessly. It was a parody of the kind of dancing he’d seen in Amestris and a clumsy one at that, but her eyes lit with joy and she twined her arms around his neck; He tightened his grip and swayed and spun as best he could manage. After a minute he set her down.

“I-I’m sorry.” He handed back her crutch and helped her re-situate it without making eye contact. “I don’t know what came over me.”

“It’s alright.” She touched his arm gently and smiled. “Have you eaten?” He shook his head and she rolled her eye, pointing toward one of the food tables, “I made my famous cinnamon pastries and they’ll be gone soon.”

Scar nodded and followed her without a word.

\---

Scar, somehow, found himself trapped in conversation with Breda, Fuery, and Falman. The former two were trying to persuade the latter to rejoin Mustang’s team. “Come on, aren’t you cold up there in the North?”

“And, the Ice Queen? Don’t you want a boss who won’t behead you for fun?”

“Of course it’s cold, Fuery.” Falman sighed. “General Armstrong never beheads anyone for fun, Breda, she’s very professional.”

“Still, why stay?”

“I’m needed more in Briggs than here.” Falman told them. “Once I got off icicle duty and started to do something that matters, I realized how important Fort Briggs is and how much my skills are needed.”

“Teh!” Breda laughed at Falman’s look of bewilderment. “That’s how we show distaste around here.”

Scar was somewhat surprised to hear him say “we” rather than “they”. He really should put in more effort. His people certainly had, as had the soldiers. He noted Roach dancing with Ayia and wondered if her aunt had noticed.

“We just swear in Drachman,” Falman told them. “It took me a while to learn them all, but there are some good insults.”

“Really?” Breda was a little too curious, and Scar drifted away to find a more savory conversation.

Mustang caught his eye and beckoned him to join his conversation. Armstrong, Miles, and Hawkeye were all circled around him, holding glasses.

“A toast,” Mustang explained, “to Ishval, to forgiveness, to new beginnings!”

“New beginnings!” Scar didn’t join in the cheer but he raised his glass and clinked it against the others’.

“General Mustang?”

“Yes?” He turned to reveal Ilya standing behind him, face set resolutely.

“You don’t deserve to be forgiven.” Ilya reached out and took the general’s arm. Mustang and Hawkeye raised their eyebrows and looked at each other uncertainly. “Ishvala has sent you to us for a reason.”

“[Ilya. What are you doing?]” Scar asked, already guessing at an answer. It wasn’t pretty and a jolt of fear ran through him.

“I’m cleansing this place.” Ilya recited, pulling a gun from under his sash. He pointed at Mustang, who drew a breath but said nothing.

“Ilya, do not do this.” Scar took a step forward, but stopped when the boy twitched. “I know Altan put you up to this, fed you lies, but I need you to believe me. This won’t solve anything.”

“He doesn’t deserve to live! He has to pay for his crimes!”

“Ilya,” Miles crouches on the boy’s level. “I know you’re angry-”

“[Traitor!]” Ilya hissed, retraining the gun on him. Miles stilled and went pale. Behind Ilya, Hawkeye crept toward the boy, looking for a way to disarm him.

“Ilya!” The party had ground to a stop so abrupt Scar was nearly deafened by the silence. “Ilya! No!” Tava, with a burst of near inhuman speed, threw herself around her cousin.

“Let go of me!” Ilya struggled in her arms.

“No! I’m not letting you go!” She gripped the arm holding the gun and began prying it out of his fingers, “I’m never letting you go!” She didn’t stop even when he pointed it at her. “Shoot me if you must, child, but I’m not letting you go! I’m not! I won’t!”

“I have to do this, let me go!”

“No!”

“Stop it!” Ilya started to shake. “I have to do this!”

“No!” Tears ran down Tava’s cheeks, “I love you, I won’t let you do this!”

“If you loved me, you’d let me go!” Ilya jerked angrily.

The shot rang out, deafeningly loud, and Ilya dropped the gun with a scream.

For a moment, they were all frozen in place; In the span of a breath, Scar caught sight of blood covering Tava’s face as she fell to the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I...am so sorry.
> 
> I love and cherish all of your reviews and comments!


	18. Neither Heaven Nor Hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter for you all. :)
> 
> Happy reading!

_The world was wrong-way up, again. She tilted her face, slowly watching streaks of purple and green after-images chase fuzzy black dots. Slow, steady, blinking allowed her to see Ilya, flushed with heat, lying beside her. Ah. Now the world was right way up._

_“T-Tava,”_

_“Shh,” her voice cracked, and blood trickled off dry lips, “hush, love. You should save your energy.”_

_“I don’t want to die, Tava.” His face twitched oddly, but no tears came; she didn’t know if he was being brave or if he was that dehydrated._

_She swallowed thickly and her throat felt like sandpaper, “I told you, you’re not going to die. We just need to rest for a little bit, and then-” she prayed Ishvala would forgive her for this final sin, “while you’re sleeping, I’ll get up and carry you the rest of the way. So, close your eyes, when you open them we’ll be in the most beautiful oasis you’ve ever seen.”_

_“Father used to say Ishvala’s bosom would be like an oasis. Are we going to heaven?”_

_Tava bit her lip--it tasted like blood and sand--and sent up another silent prayer to Ishvala, “would you like that?”_

_“I think so, but not yet.”_

_She pushed herself up, watching the world spin and swirl around her. Her leg felt like fir and she tugged up her trouser leg to examine it, the marks from the temero’s needles were an angry red and black streaks spiraled out, spreading down into her foot and up over her knee. Summoning the last of her strength she tore the trousers and tied a tight tourniquet just above her knee._

_“Tava?”_

_“Come on, Ilya.” She couldn’t stand anymore, so she crawled over to him, “climb onto my back. We don’t have to go to heaven yet.”_

_By the time they reached an oasis, she didn’t care if it was a mirage, she just tumbled headfirst into the water. It shocked her system and she was cold--_

“Tava, stay with me. Come on, Tava!”

_So cold._

“-head wounds always bleed-”

_She needed to get out of the water, but the pool was unexpectedly deep and she kept tumbling down, down, down-_

“Tava, please.”

_down,_

“I love you.”

_down._

\---

Scar shoved onlookers aside and knelt beside Tava’s crumpled form. He ripped his cingul off and pressed it to her temple.

“Stay with me, Tava.”

Blood seeped through it, and he frantically shouted for a medic.

“Come on, Tava!” Her eyelashes fluttered, and hope soared for a moment, then she stilled.

“It only grazed her,” someone was telling him, apparently thinking to be reassuring, “head wounds always bleed.”

He ignored him, “please, Tava.” A medic knelt by him, and began to push him out of the way. "Stay with me!" Tava’s face stayed impassive. He leaned down just before the medic succeeded in shoving him out of the way, and whispered desperately, “please, I love you.”

He didn’t watch them take her away, instead he rounded on Ilya, who was curled on the ground, sobbing. He reached for the boy, but Miles beat him to it, laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. He shot a warning look at Scar, who turned to see Cleric Xander wrestling with one of the men who had been speaking with Ilya before, and Cleric Iroh had Altan on the ground.

Mustang sprung into action, ordering the men they believed to be involved taken up to the school building, where they could be held for questioning and ordered Breda to organize a cleanup and make sure everyone else made it home safely.

They took the men into one classroom and Ilya into another. Scar followed Miles and the Grand Cleric into the second classroom.

“Now, Ilya-”

“I-I didn’t mean to!” Ilya sobbed, “they said it w-was,” he hiccupped, “e-empty!”

“Come here, dear one,” the old cleric embraced the boy, “and tell me about it.”

Scar felt anger bubbling up in his stomach like bile. His hands clenched into fists, and he drew breath through gritted teeth. He wasn’t sure if his anger was more directed at the sobbing boy before him, or the men in the other room. One thing was certain, though, he couldn’t stay there and risk exploding. He turned on his heel, and ignoring the looks the other men might be giving him, stormed from the room.

It was remarkably satisfying to slam the door hard enough to shake the building, but the feeling was fleeting, chased swiftly by guilt. The building had been expensive--perhaps not to an Amestrian, but for a people who had long had _nothing_ the simple schoolhouse was a veritable palace--and he could not abide having it damaged.

He sighed, and made his way over into the classroom next door. Cleric Iroh was looming over Altan, who was managing a look of considerable arrogance, even with the giant of a man glaring furiously down at him. The remaining men had been shoved into desks that were a little too small, while soldier lined the edges, weapons holstered, but ready to be drawn at a moment’s notice. Armstrong, he noticed irritably, had seated herself on the teacher’s desk, her feet drawn up to rest on the front pupil’s desk.

“Meine,” Cleric Markel sighed quietly, in that way he had of being more disappointed than angry, “how did you get involved in all this? You were once such a peaceful man, you even considered the priesthood!” He shook his head, “what happened?”

“What happened?” Meine, who Scar recognized as the one who had asked him about reconsidering earlier on, laughed harshly. “They happened!” He gestured broadly to the soldiers in the room, “they killed my family! They razed my home to the ground! How can you work with them? Defend them? They’re _monsters!_ ”

“Meine-”

“No,” Mustang interjected, laying a hand on the cleric’s arm, “he isn’t wrong. We,” he cleared his throat, “ _I_ am a monster. I accept that blame, and I offer my deepest apologies, however meaningless they may be. I will not ask you to forgive me; I understand myself to be unforgivable.”

Meine sneered and spat on the alchemist’s face. Mustang, to his credit, only nodded wearily.

“Let me tell you something.” Scar stepped forward suddenly, unable to stop himself. “I’ve been down this road. I killed in revenge, believed myself right. It did no good; I only grew angrier, my rage grew stronger, and I felt emptier. My sorrow multiplied when I sought revenge. I only began to heal when I turned from that path. You must do the same.”

Markel smiled encouragingly and patted Scar’s shoulder. “Very wise words, my son.” He turned to Mustang, “I have a feeling that if we look into it, we’ll discover these three have some interesting connections to our would-be bandits.”

“If you would like, I can arrange to have these men guarded while we investigate,” Mustang offered.

“Perhaps that would be best,” Markel agreed, “I’d like to speak to the Grand Cleric before anything final is decided.”

“Of course.” Mustang nodded and set to work arranging his men.

\---

Miles made his way from the school building disheartened. By the time plans were set in motion, and he had swung by the infirmary to check on Miss Tava, it was long past midnight.

He staggered blearily into his tent, and immediately began tugging at his boots, thinking of nothing other than falling onto his cot and sleeping. A soft exhale froze him in his tracks and he spun to see Olivier sitting on his desk.

“If I were Drachman, you’d be dead.”

He shrugged and practically fell against her in his attempt to embrace her. “Why would there be a Drachman in Ishval?”

She chuckled, wrapping her arms around him, “I suppose you’re right.” She pushed herself off the desk and supported him more fully. He slumped against her, burying his face in her neck. “Are you alright?”

“I-” he faltered, “no.” He felt a lump rising in his throat, “it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Everything was going so well, and t-then,” he shuddered with tears he could no longer suppress, “it all went so wrong. How did it go so wrong?”

“Mmh,” she rubbed his back soothingly, “did you know, when I got my first command, I cried myself to sleep every night for weeks?”

“Y-you did?” He knew it was a distraction technique, but that didn’t stop him from being curious.

“I did,” she acknowledged, “I was miserable.” She hesitated a minute and then continued, softer than before, “I was afraid.”

Miles tightened his grip on her, and took several steadying breaths. “Olivier?”

“Hmm?”

“Do you ever wish you could go back and do things differently?”

There was silence while she considered. “Sometimes,” she admitted at last, “but then I think, what if I could go back and change things and it made it worse? What if I’d never gone to the West? Then I’d never have met Buccaneer. Or, if I hadn’t gone to Briggs, I wouldn’t have met _you_. Even if-” her voice wavered ever so slightly, “even if I went back and reassigned Buccaneer so that he wouldn’t die, maybe the Promised Day would have succeeded. What if I lost it all because I didn’t want to make sacrifices?”

“How do you decide whether or not a sacrifice is worth it?”

“I’m not even sure I know anymore.” She sighed, “Miles, I can’t lose anyone else. I’m too tired,” she chuckled wryly, “I’m too _old_.”

“You’re not-”

“I don’t just mean chronological age.”

He couldn’t bear the defeated tone, “I can’t lose you, either, Olivier.”

“Let’s not discuss this right now.” Olivier stepped back and cupped his face in her hands. “Right here, right now, I’m here and you’re here. Let’s let that be enough.”

He nodded, inclining his head to kiss her. “Stay with me?”

She didn’t bother to respond, instead kissed him back, knowing they both knew she was incapable of denying him in that moment.

The morning light would find them still tangled together, both better rested, both at peace. It wouldn’t last forever, but for them, it would be a taste of heaven. For them, it would be _enough_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmm. Is my sleep-deprivation showing? 
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, please leave a comment and let me know what you think. 
> 
> Also, I'm struggling a bit with this fic, so updates might be interspersed with other works. We shall see.


	19. One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been a while. 
> 
> Happy reading!

Scar stared at the entrance to Tava’s tent. It had been days since the incident at the celebration, and he hadn’t gone to see her. Not even once. He raised a shaking hand to her doorboard. The bells jingled merrily, but there was no response for so long he turned to leave.

“What?” Tava’s voice was thick and tired, almost hoarse. Scar turned back and took in her rumpled appearance. Her clothes are noticeably wrinkled and dirty; her hair was falling out of its braid, wisping around her face which sported a long line of tidy stitches, and there were bags under her eyes which were puffy and so red it was almost difficult to distinguish her irises.

“I wanted to see if you’re alright.”

“Obviously, I’m fine.” She probably meant for it to sound bitingly sarcastic, but instead it sounded fatigued and pathetic.

“Right.” Scar frowned at her. “When did you last eat?”

“That depends,” she brought a hand to her forehead, “what day is it?”

“If you have to ask, it’s been too long.” He stepped forward and then hesitated, “may I enter, Miss Tava?”

She snorted, “why not?” She stepped out of the way and he entered the tent. It was as disheveled as she was. He glanced around and his eyes settled on a loaf of bread and he sliced her a piece. Further poking in her lone cupboard revealed a jar of honey and he spread it on the bread.

“Eat.” He held it out, and Tava took it slowly, she sat on her bunk and took a bite, chewing and swallowing almost mechanically.

“They took Ilya.”

“I know.”

“I failed him.” She kicked her foot idly, for a minute. “And I don’t even know how. I carried him on my back with needles in my leg across two districts, I carried him from camp to camp long before the stump even healed. When there wasn’t enough food, I gave him mine.” She looked up at him, tears welling in her eyes, “I was so weak, and when we were out of water we layed in the hot desert sun and waited to die. I didn’t think I could go on.” She stopped, putting her face in her hands. “I got up and picked him up and limped all the way to the camp. I fell down at the entrance and they thought I was dead, but I made it. For him. And now-” she broke into sobs.

Scar slowly crossed the tent to perch beside her. He had no idea what he should do, but he put an arm around her and that seemed right. She leaned into him and he patted her back awkwardly, but gently.

“Sorry.” She muttered, sitting up and rubbing her eyes a few minutes later.

“Don’t apologize.” He thought for a long minute, “come eat supper with us tonight.”

“I won’t be good company.”

“I never am.”

“I need to bathe.”

“You have time.”

“I don’t have anything to wear.”

“I’ll ask Mei to come by and help you figure something out.”

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”

He allowed the smallest of smiles to grace his face. “Yes.”

\---

Tava made her way to the camp showers slowly. It wasn’t the communal aspect that bothered her--growing up in a temple, she was more than accustomed to sharing the one female bathroom with other women--it was that she preferred to bathe. Typically, she would have Ilya haul water for her, and then send him out to spend time with friends.

Scowling, she pushed open the door. The cement building was a single room, divided into sections with curtains, with a central drain in the floor. Far from luxurious, it was, at least, adequate. There weren’t many people there that time of day, but Armstrong was in the process of unpacking a shower bag. She glanced up when Tava, entered and some kind of understanding flickered in her blue eyes. Leaving her things on a wooden bench, she walked out of the building.

Tava normally would have been offended, but she couldn’t be bothered to care. Yanking open a curtain she glared at her nemesis. How was she supposed to use a shower when she couldn’t even stand? It was bitterly unfair, and if she hadn’t already wasted all her tears she would have cried; just like she did the first time she’d tried unsuccessfully to shower and had instead crashed to the ground.

The door opened again and she glanced over. Armstrong was back, in her hands a wooden stool. She crossed the room, and brushing past Tava, set the stool in the shower stall. Tava opened her mouth to question, but the other woman was already shutting herself into her own shower.

Olivier took her time getting ready after her shower. Miles had found some Ishvalan clothing for her and she examined her reflection in the mirror. The lightweight tunic was loose and comfortable, and while it wasn’t exactly custom-made for her, was flattering enough. She combed her hair and deliberated about makeup. She wasn’t generally one to worry about it, wearing it when she felt like it and not when she didn’t, and Ishvala knew, Miles wouldn’t care; but he’d told her there was someone he wanted her to meet and she was debating the impression she wanted to make.

Tava reemerged, clean and if not rested, moderately refreshed.

Olivier caught her eye in the mirror and gave her a slight smile. “How are you, Miss Tava?”

“I’m doing better now, thank you, Miss Armstrong.” Olivier cringed, and Tava quirked a brow. “Would you prefer to be called something else?”

“Honestly? Yes. ‘Miss Armstrong’ is what my governess called me.”

Tava smiled, “I see.” She didn’t, governesses virtually unheard of in Ishval. “What would you prefer?”

“Olivier suits me just fine.”

Tava nodded and began dragging her comb through her hair. It was tangled from her days of ignoring it and she winced, eyes watering with every snag.

“Here, I think you need this.” Olivier reached into her bag and produced a glass bottle of a sweet smelling oil. Tava glanced at it skeptically, and Olivier ushered her to sit on one of the benches. “Let me.” She carefully dispensed a little of the oil into her hand and began working it into Tava’s hair.

“What is this?” Tava asked in amazement as the comb glided through her hair.

“I’m not actually sure: it’s my husband’s.” Tava glanced up and saw the soldier’s face pale, hands freezing in her hair. She cleared her throat and continued, “he swears by it, so I brought some with me to combat the effect of the desert heat.”

Tava smiled gently up at the older woman, understanding in her eyes. “Some things don’t need to be said.”

Olivier met her eye in the mirror. “And some things do.”

Her tone was somehow both gentle and rebuking, and Tava couldn’t help being honest with her, “I think that Scar said he loved me, but now he’s acting-”

“Like an insufferable idiot?”

Tava sighed, “That’s not how I was going to put it, but you’re not wrong.” She glanced down at her hands and sighed again, “I suppose now is when you give me a speech about men and priorities?”

“No.” Olivier set the comb down and crossed to lean on the sink, looking straight at Tava, “you’re not so young that you need a lecture, least of all from me. I will, however, give you my insight into the heads of fools who think they aren’t worth loving.” She sighed, “it’s best not to press him--love comes slow to these kinds of fools.” Olivier leaned forward, “don’t look so despondent, this slow love is even harder to get rid of.”

Tava nodded resolutely.

\---

Scar was both relieved and oddly nervous when Tava appeared for dinner. Mei--who had come up with some ridiculous reason to miss dinner--had obviously enlisted the help of one of the women she lived with, because Tava was wearing an Amestrian dress in navy blue, with white lace trim. Scar had never seen anyone so beautiful. Sergeant Roach and Xander trailed behind her, a large rolled rug on their shoulders.

“Uh, what-?”

“I said I’d give you a rug, didn’t I?” She smiled gently, and her cheeks dimpled in a way that made his stomach churn unexpectedly. “These two saw me struggling and offered to help.”

Both the sergeant and the cleric gave Scar unimpressed looks as though he had _asked_ Tava to drag the rug over single-handedly.

“Thank you.” He nodded politely, “you can take that inside for me, if you don’t mind.”

Rearranging the tent to make room for the rug took a while, but when it was finished, Scar brought the pot in off the cook fire and found Tava continuing to do a little arranging, giving the tent a sort of homelike casualness he had never managed. She tossed pillows around his little table and then sank down onto one.

“Your tent is so bare,” she remarked, glancing around.

“Is it?” She nodded, and he gave her a slight smile, “you seem much improved.”

She smiled, “I’m done feeling sorry for myself. Ilya isn’t dead. There’s still hope.”

\---

Miles’ face lit up when he saw her and Olivier felt a faint flutter in her stomach. She squashed it as best she could. “You’re like a little kid,” she grumbled without malice, “this had better be good.”

He smiled mysteriously, and held out his hand, “come and see.”

She took it curiously and allowed herself to be led across the camp. She kept an eye out for anyone who might see them and grow suspicious, but he chose back ways and narrow alleys, and they remained unseen.

He ushered her into a tent and an elderly Ishvalan woman rose to greet them. Miles murmured greetings and began the introductions, but Olivier wasn’t listening. Her eyes were trained on the woman’s face. It was older and wrinkled, but there was a familiarity in those warm red eyes. The woman smiled and her eyes twinkled.

Realization struck Olivier like a thunderbolt and she fell to her knees, pressing her forehead to the ground, _“Omi.”_

“[Get up, little one.]” Olivier scrambled to her feet, and the old woman clutched her face in weathered hands. “Look at you, you’re so beautiful.”

“How-?” Olivier breathed, scarcely believing what she was seeing. She shot Miles an accusatory look, “why didn’t you tell me?”

Miles smiled apologetically, “I wasn’t certain. I didn’t want to get your hopes up, Sir.”

“Oh, you needn’t maintain that charade in front of me.” Omi laughed at their twin looks of shock, “I’ve seen the way you look at each other. I may be an old woman, but I’ve seen enough in my time.”

“I don’t-” Miles protested feebly, falling silent at a look from the old woman.

“Come, both of you.” Omi waved them toward the little table built around her _jamaa pole_ , “I want to know everything.”

And so they sat long into the night, Olivier and Omi sharing stories and rekindling a friendship that was decades old. Miles listened, arm wrapped around Olivier, head resting on her shoulder. In the midst of everything, one simple night of love and laughter, one night of being able to express his love for his wife openly, was one more night of happiness than he could have possibly imagined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As always, I'd love love _love_ to hear what you think!


	20. Sins Covered, Sins Revealed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a bit, but this one is nice and long to make up for it.
> 
> Happy reading!

Dr. Marcoh was among the first wave of newcomers to Ishval. He voluntarily was the first to meet with the Clerics and be formally welcomed. In addition to helping the medics with injuries, he had come equipped to handle health examinations and immunizations for the Ishvalans. 

The problem was, of course, that no one was particularly eager to be examined by a doctor who had previously contributed to the near-extinction of their people. And so, Scar swallowed his pride and agreed to be his first Ishvalan patient. 

He was not, however, as he discovered letting himself into the back of the medical tent without knocking, Marcoh’s first patient. He froze, watching Marcoh palpate a pale abdomen, fingers skimming over uneven ribs. 

“Like what you see?” Olivier raised unimpressed eyebrows at him.

Marcoh’s wrinkled head shot up. “Scar!” 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize-”

“Out!” 

Scar stepped swiftly back into the front room and busied himself reading the informational posters tacked to the filing cabinets. They showed smiling Amestrians getting shots or having their temperature taken. He shook his head at the ridiculousness. The curtain swayed and Olivier stepped through, buttoning her jacket back.

He cleared his throat, “again, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize there was anyone back there-”  

“No matter,” she said briskly, smoothing the front of her uniform, “we’ll say no more about it.” She started passed him, but paused at the doorway, “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention this to Colonel Miles? I’ve taken some leave to stay here and help with the transition, and I wouldn’t want him to think I wasn’t up for it.”

“Of course.” He watched her leave and headed back into the curtained off exam “room” where Marcoh was recovering the exam table with a new sheet. 

He smiled when Scar entered, “if you’ll have a seat, I have a few things to wrap up, and then I’ll be ready for you.” 

Scar clambered awkwardly onto the exam table and watched Marcoh clear a metal tray of equipment, tossing what looked suspiciously like a urine sample into a bin labeled “medical waste”. 

While the doctor scrubbed his hands and pulled on clean gloves, he decided to ask, “did you know General Armstrong has taken leave?”

Marcoh frowned at him, “you know I can’t discuss a patient’s medical decisions.”

Scar’s brows shot up, “she didn’t say it was medical leave--just that it was to help with the transition.” 

The doctor’s worn face twitched with an unidentifiable expression and he gave Scar a reproachful look, “Don’t go poking your nose where it doesn’t belong. It’s liable to get bitten.”

Scar nodded, “of course.” 

Marcoh didn’t look like he believed him, but he pulled out a clipboard, anyway. “Right, I like to get started with some medical history questions, helps me know if there’s anything I need to be careful of or concerned about. To start with, your full name and age please.”

Scar hesitated, then remembered the legal name Miles had given him to go with his new identity “Dimitri Carlisle Armstrong, thirty-seven.”

Marcoh’s lips twitched, but let the name pass without comment. “I’ll take your height and weight in a minute, but we’ll go one with the history for now. Any major health events I should know about? Surgeries, injuries,-” he quirked a half smile, “alchemically attached limbs?”

“Other than the ones you already know about?” Scar recounted the nature of his Promised Day injuries, and remembered, unexpectedly, that he had broken his leg as a child. 

Marcoh nodded, scrawling information on the form in front of him. “Are you sexually active?”

“You cannot be intending to ask my people such questions!” Scar gaped at the man.

“I realize it might be a bit embarrassing, but it’s important.”

“I cannot imagine what you hope to ascertain-”

“Whether or not I need to screen you for sexually transmitted-”

Scar held up a hand, “enough. No.”

Marcoh made a mark on his sheet, “have you ever been?”

“I was a priest.”

“That doesn’t actually answer my question.”   

“If you respond that way to any of our priests you’ll be struck.” Scar informed him, shaking his head.

Marcoh sighed, “well that’s a risk I’ll have to be willing to take.”

“You aren’t going to ask any of the women these impertinent questions are you?”

The doctor grabbed another clipboard, “I’ll ask them those, whether they’ve been assaulted at any point, and whether or not they’ve ever been pregnant. Number of pregnancies, number of live births-”

“A proper Ishvalan woman would only ever discuss these things with a husband, midwife, or priest!” 

“I’ll try to find a more culturally-sensitive approach, then.” He took a deep breath, “shall we continue?” 

Scar nodded. He found aspects of the exam uncomfortable, but nothing else stood out as risking the wrath of his people. When Dr. Marcoh, smiling, declared him healthy he hopped off the table and thanked the man for his efforts. 

\---

Several other brave Ishvalans, including Tava and a number of priests, agreed to examinations and he was relieved to hear none of them were so offended by the prying questions as to assault the doctor. 

He tried not to eavesdrop when, Tava emerging from the tent, was set upon by groups of nervous woman wanting to know  “Was it awful?” “Were the questions as improper as we heard?” and more. Tava reassured them all with her warm smile and they gradually dispersed. 

As she approached him, Scar busied himself with checking over the inventory of medical supplies being offloaded from one of the oversized supply trucks. 

“Master Scar, I wonder if you’d take a walk with me?” 

“Of course,” he mentally mourned the stiffness of the formality that had cropped up between them. They walked around the outskirts of the camp, Tava seemingly deep in thought. When they came to a precipice overlooking the ruins of the old Dalihan temple, she stopped.  

“There’s something I wish to discuss with you, and I am not certain it will be an entirely pleasant conversation,” she admitted, looking at something on the far distant horizon. 

“Go on,” Scar prompted, “I’ll gladly listen to whatever it is you have to say.” 

“There were a number of points in my examination that were unpleasant.” She gave a wry smile, “I was told my constant reliance on a crutch is damaging to my spine and shoulders, and I am developing an unhealthy curvature to my spine. I should get automail as soon as possible to alleviate it.”   

“I see.”

“No, you don’t. That isn’t what I brought you out here for, but I am afraid to say what I must.”

Scar waited in silence, keeping his face angled out over the ruins, but watching her out of the corner of her eye.

She drew a deep breath, “in light of certain...topics being brought up by the good doctor, I fear it will not be long before an old rumor resurfaces. I would like for you to hear it from me, so that when you hear it from others the truth of the matter will already be known to you.” She swallowed, “you will hear it said that, in my youth, I was caught f-” she stuttered, and drew another steadying breath, “fornicating in the temple.”

He couldn’t help but turn toward her, a question on his lips, but she held up a hand.

“I expect you are hoping to hear a denial on all fronts, but I can only tell you this: it wasn’t in the temple. It was in the chambers of a novitiate.” She laughed harshly, “small comfort, I am sure, but at least I did not stoop to temple desecration!”

“Tava,” he began, drawing a look of confusion, “forgive me, but I feel I must ask, how old were you?”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but it wasn’t anything like that. I wasn’t an adult, exactly, but I was of equal age with the novitiate. He hadn’t taken his vows yet, so I do not think he was harshly punished.” 

“Were you?”

She looked confused again, “the cleric who found us dragged me into the temple square, as you might expect. I received a lashing, but the novice’s father was also a cleric and he begged the whole thing dismissed and took his son on a sojourn before he was allowed to recommence studies. I took a vow of contrition and served in the archives in silence for some time. I do not think my father was ever told, but I wondered if he knew.” She frowned, “he was somewhat distant after that, but I was lovelier then than I am now, and there were others who might think what you implied, and perhaps he felt it wise to keep his distance for that reason.”

“You are very lovely now, I cannot imagine that you could have lost any of your beauty.”

She stared at him, “what?”

He reached out to cup her face, “you’re very beautiful. I would very much like to have words with anyone who tells you otherwise, or thinks that an old tryst is reason to give you grief.”

“Scar, were you listening at all? I violated Ishvala’s laws! I-”

“I do not know anyone who hasn’t in some way. Do you really expect I _ , a killer _ , could hold this against you?”

“I thought you might be angry at me for deceiving you. I let you think I was pure, when I’m really-” she shook her head. “I thought you would want to shame me, lest you be caught in my disgrace.”

“You have no disgrace to be caught in.” He hesitated, “I would be glad to be associated with you.”

“You will be cast under suspicion, scrutinized. Scar, I can’t ask you-”

“You’re not. I’m asking you, Tava.”

She laughed, disbelieving. He pulled her to himself, and she rested her head on his chest. “Tava-harra.” 

“Hmm?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck, “Tava-harra Csilla. It’s my sacred name.”

“Blessed child of the stars.” Scar only had time for the swiftest of smiles before her lips met his.     

\---

“Miles!” Miles glanced up from his paperwork as Scar burst through the tent’s opening, his hands full of bunched newspapers. He slammed them down on the desk, “have you seen these?!”

Miles glanced over the headlines:

**_The Truth Behind the Scar_ **

**_The Armstrong’s Secret Son!_ **

**_The REAL Alchemist Killer: Revealed!_ **

“Ah.” ****

“I take it you knew about this?!”

“Did you really think your new identity would come without a cover story?” 

“This erases my crimes! Creates an entirely false narrative!”

“And now you are free to roam Amestris. You don’t need to hide. I’m not sure I see the problem here.”

“Who is responsible for these lies?”

Miles raised his brows. “I think you know.”

“And what does she gain from it?”

Miles shrugged and rubbed his forehead, “you’re more than welcome to take it up with her. I won’t pretend to have all the answers.”

“I overheard her talking with General Blackburn!” Scar spat, “I think she’s planning something.”

The colonel tried his hardest not to look amused. “I don’t doubt it. She’s usually ten or twelve steps ahead of the rest of us.” He smoothed the newspapers, “where did you get these? Most of the men know better than to show these to you.”

“Dr. Marcoh gave them to me.”

“Ah.”

“Miles, you need to take this seriously!”

“I am. Generals Armstrong and Mustang, together with Fuhrer Grumman, made the arrangements for the stories that would be made public after the Promised Day. I don’t like every decision, Scar, but I’m a soldier. I follow orders. If you, as a private citizen, wish to get involved I can’t stop you, but I also can’t get involved.”

Scar glared, “what hold does she have over you?” Miles opened his mouth, but Scar cut him off. “I saw the two of you  _ together. _ ” 

Miles’ eyes widened, “when?”

“There was more than once?”

Miles rubbed the bridge of his nose tiredly, “I’ve heard people say a lot of things about Miss Lowe recently. Why do stay by her side anyway?” Scar opened his mouth angrily, but snapped it shut when he caught Miles’ meaning. The quarter-Ishvalan nodded, “exactly.” 

“I never saw you as the type to forsake your marriage vows.”

“Be that as it may, I have work to finish, so unless there’s anything else you’d like to discuss-?” 

Scar shook his head and Miles watched him go, before sighing and turning to the newspapers. There was a very recent one in the middle of the stack and he flipped it open.  _ “In connection with a conspiracy dating back years before the coup, General Blackburn has been arrested-”  _

He leapt to his feet and with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, marched toward the arrival point for military vehicles. A truck emblazoned with the logo of the military police was already there, and an MP was handing papers to Mustang, who was nodding. 

“General!” He threw up a half-hearted salute, “what’s happening?”

“Stand down, Miles.” 

“Sir-”

“Stand down.” He turned to see Olivier, in her full dress uniform marching toward them. She smiled as she unbuckled her sword belt and handed it to him. “Look after this for me?”

“Sir-”

“Olivier Mira Armstrong?” She turned and nodded at the MP, who reached for something on his utility belt. Several others drew guns, all of which were trained instantly on Olivier. “Put your hands on your head, slowly and turn around.” She complied without hesitation. “By order of the Fuhrer, I’m placing you under arrest.”  

“On what grounds?” Miles demanded, dropping the sword. Mustang put up a hand in warning. 

The MP gave him a surprisingly sympathetic glance as he cuffed Olivier, “on the grounds of High Treason.”

Another MP stepped forward, “Conspiracy to assassinate the Fuhrer. Conspiracy to overthrow the government. Conspiracy to commit unlawful alchemical experimentation on the people of Amestris. Three counts of homicide. Thirty-seven counts of manslaughter by deliberate harm. One count of willful destruction of evidence.” He nodded at the papers Mustang was still holding. “Full details in the report.”

“General Mustang, you can’t-!”

“Direct orders of the Fuhrer.” Mustang replied, gritting his teeth. “Now,  _ stand down,  _ Colonel or you’ll be joining her in custody.”

“Sir, please!”

_ “Miles.”  _ Olivier shook her head, and he fell silent. 

She didn’t say anything as she was led to the waiting transport vehicle. She kept her chin up and her face blank as they bound her hand and foot and two armed guards clambered in after her, training their weapons on her. She didn’t say anything or glance back as the door was slammed shut. The truck rumbled to life and began to pull away, but still she was unmoved.

Beside him, Miles was dimly aware of Mustang lifting a hand in salute. Shakily, he followed suit. All around them, soldiers stopped what they were doing and raised their hands to salute the truck. They all stood frozen until the truck was nothing more than a speck in the distance and Mustang lowered his hand. 

He turned to Miles, face pained. “I’m so sorry-”

Miles didn’t hear the rest of his speech, wasn’t aware of anything but a rushing in his ears and sudden pain exploding in his hand. The general staggered backwards, holding his nose as blood spurted everywhere. It wasn’t until Hawkeye, tackling him from behind, shoved his face into the sand that he realized what he’d done. For the second time in his career, he had just assaulted his superior.   

_Ishvala have mercy on his soul._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think. :)


	21. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's another chapter for you!
> 
> Happy reading!

School being in session meant that rather than locking Miles in an empty classroom, they locked him in a supply closet. He sat on an upside down bucket, and rubbed his stinging hand. It was quiet, save for the distant hum of busy students, and cool. There was no light in the little room. 

He wasn’t sure how much time passed while he sat and waited. All he knew was he had ample time to think. The conspiracy to overthrow the government charge was true, but she was supposed to be protected by the same web of lies that protected Mustang and the others  _ including  _ Fuhrer Grumman. Certainly she had killed three generals, but that had been during the coup. He realized suddenly he didn’t know who her supposed fourth victim was. Thirty-seven counts of manslaughter. The same number of Briggs’ soldiers had been buried after the Promised Day. 

The bell rang signalling the end of the school day and children ran past his door, feet and happy voices, echoing in his ears. He rubbed his face and wondered if they would move him to a classroom. They didn’t. It grew so quiet that he could hear only his own breathing and still he waited.  

The door swung open at last and he scrambled to his feet, blinking at the sudden light. Roy Mustang was standing there alone, nose bandaged, flashlight in hand.

“Sir!” Miles saluted swiftly, but Mustang waved it away.

“At ease, Colonel.”

Miles glanced around, but there were no guards further down the hall either. He frowned, “With all due respect, Sir, should a man of your rank be visiting prisoners alone?”

Roy laughed, the sound somewhere between amused and exasperated. “For Ishvala’s sake, Miles, the door wasn’t even locked!” He blinked in bewilderment, earning a look of outright amusement. “This was for your own protection while I made a plan and ensured Hawkeye didn’t just shoot you the second you set foot outside.”

“But, Sir-”

The general held up a hand, “I’m really sick of hearing that from you. I get that you’re not happy and you don’t like me, but I need you to stop fighting against me and work with me.”

Miles swallowed and nodded, “yes, Sir.”

Roy’s face softened, just a little, “Olivier warned me you might react like this.” He shook his head, “I warned her getting involved with a subordinate was a foolish decision, but I think I was a few years too late.” Miles’ brows rose. “Don’t look at me like that. You’re the one who chose the codename ‘Mira’” he shook his head, “honestly.”

“What’s going to happen to her, Sir?”

“She’ll be court martialed. If she’s lucky, she’ll be dishonorably discharged, stripped of rank and title, and spend a few years in prison.” 

“That’s the best case scenario?”

Roy nodded, “if I tell you the worst case scenario, you’ll have to promise not to punch me again.” Miles nodded and continued, “worst case: she’ll be tried in a civilian court. I don’t think there’s any doubt she’ll be found guilty.”

“She’ll be sentenced to death?”

“Almost certainly.”

“What are we supposed to do?” 

Roy gave him a long look, “make her sacrifice mean something.”

\---

Miles ran his fingers over the hilt of Olivier’s sword. It was an ancient weapon, having belonged to her family for generations, and one of the few relics she cared about. He supposed she had given it to him to keep it out of an evidence locker, but he couldn’t shake the feeling there’d been another, deeper, reason. 

Slowly, he tightened his grip on the hilt and pulled the sword from the sheath. He had picked up and moved the sword in its sheath before, tidying up after Olivier, or on long nights helping her out of her uniform because she would otherwise fall asleep in it and wake up stiff with a bruised hip from lying on the hilt, but he’d never unsheathed the weapon. It didn’t sing the way it did when Olivier pulled it out with speed and grace, but instead was stiff and muted.

Wrapped around the blade, near the middle, was a sheet of paper, covered in flowing cursive script. He pulled it free careful not to slice the paper and the sword glided smoothly back into the sheath. He didn’t have to see the signature to know Olivier had written the letter. He opened it with shaking fingers. 

_ “Miles,  _

_ “If you’re reading this, then I’m either in prison or dead. I know you must be angry; I would be. But, before your overprotective nature sends you into a blind rage, please consider my words. First, I must apologize for not being honest with you. I knew that if I told you my plans then you would have asked me not go through with them. And when you asked, I would have obeyed. In a heartbeat, I would have put aside everything to run away with you. Over time, though, the cost of such selfishness would have caught up with us. Your people would suffer, and all of our dear friends at Briggs, also.   _

_ “You have long known there is no length too far, no cost too high, for the lives of my men. In pursuit of the greater good, I led my men to their deaths. And so many of my valiant Briggs’ Bears and their families stand to suffer for their heroism. My love, forgive me, I cannot stand by and let that happen.  _

_ “Beyond that, perhaps selfishly, I cannot bear to think of Buccaneer, my oldest and dearest friend, being dishonored in his death. He died a hero, and deserves to be remembered as one. His mother and sister, have suffered beyond enough, should I also take their survivor’s pension? Deny them their right to be compensated? I cannot. And, so, I will pay this price. Whatever the cost, even if it is my own life, I will bear it for the sake of those who have given their lives and stand to lose even their honor.  _

_ “I want you to understand, and I think you will, that I am not abandoning you. In the event this plan fails, I have set up safeguards for the best of my men (even an Ice Queen, it seems, will have favorites), you were not there on the Promised Day and you are not at Briggs now, so you should remain safe. I even tried to break from you gently, to soften the blow, but you said you would not forgive me, and I must be going soft because I found it impossible to go on with that plan.  _

_ “Remember me with honor, won’t you? I think it’s fair to say, before this is over, I will have little by way of dignity or a good name left. I hope you will not suffer by association. I sincerely hope, my love, that this is not the end; that we will meet again in this life. In the event this is a fool’s hope, then know I love you more than I can even say (this should not surprise you, I told you once I am not romantic). Be strong.  _

_ “Forever and always yours, _

_ “Olivier Mira Miles” _

He stared. Olivier Mira _Miles._ He’d never asked her to take his name, never even considered it a possibility, but he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t daydreamed about it. He’d imagined what it would be like, to playfully call her “Mrs. Miles”, to be able to refer to themselves as “Mr and Mrs Miles”. Seeing it in writing, Olivier choosing to refer to herself that way made his chest constrict. The dim light of his lantern made reading a more strenuous task for his eyes, but he read and reread the letter until every word, every loop and scrawl of her handwriting, every smudge of ink, was emblazoned in his memory.

There was a rap on his doorboard and the  _ sali  _ jingled softly. He frowned, tucked the letter into his pocket and glanced at his watch. It was entirely too late at night for a pleasure call. 

He sighed, and called out an invitation to enter. Scar loomed in the doorway, even as he stooped to enter. “Scar, I’m sorry, but I’m not in the mood-”

“I’m sorry, my brother.”

“What?”

Scar lowered himself across from Miles and offered him a sympathetic smile. Miles resisted the urge to comment on how unsettling the expression was on his face. “I may not be fond of her, but it’s obvious you care about General Armstrong deeply.”

Miles snorted, “don’t go saying that too loudly, you’ll get me in trouble.” 

“More than you’ve already gotten yourself into?” There was a glint of amusement in the larger man’s eye and Miles groaned.

“Does the whole camp know?”

“No, I only know because Tava observed the incident. She was preparing a shipment for Miss Catherine’s boutique when it happened. She isn’t the type to gossip, don’t worry, but she was concerned for you.”

“Ah.” Miles rubbed his eyes tiredly, “I wondered why you were here. You can tell her I’m alright, then, and be on your way.”  

“It is not only Tava who is concerned.” Miles nodded, but he looked unconvinced. Scar reached over to his desk and pulled a thick personnel file off his desk. “This is hers?” When Miles nodded he opened it and began scanning through it.

“I don’t know why I thought it would help,” Miles admitted, running his fingers through his ponytail, “I just went by the office and grabbed it. Mustang only had it because of the review board, and it’s mostly redacted anyway.” 

“Hmm,” Scar flipped through page after page of thick black lines before returning to the first page. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen both her eyes before.”

Miles smiled slightly, “it’s odd, isn’t it? You have to wear your hair back for identification photos, but I honestly think Olivier’s would be more helpful if they let her leave it in front.”

“She’s certainly very pretty, I can see why-” Scar cut off abruptly and Miles raised his eyebrows. “She-” he gave Miles an incredulous look, “you-”

“Yes?” 

“I don’t-” he shook his head, “there’s no way.”

“What?”

“You and her-”

“We’ve established this already.”

Scar stared at the file for a long moment, before bringing his eyes up to meet Miles’. “You haven’t broken your marriage vows at all, have you?” Miles didn’t respond, only lifted and dropped a shoulder in a poor imitation of a casual shrug. Scar sat in silence, slowly sifting through the pieces of the puzzle and weighing every interaction he’d been privy to. “How?” He said at last, bewilderment plain.

Miles frowned at him, “how did I stay faithful?”

“No, I mean your  _ marriage _ . She’s your superior, surely the military doesn’t allow-”

“It didn’t allow Ishvalans either,” Miles replied levelly, “but she isn’t one to blindly follow. She saw the harm and foolishness of the laws and kept me safe.” He seemed to sense Scar’s thoughts, or perhaps he’d just heard Scar’s feelings on the matter often enough because he held up a hand, “she didn’t force, coerce, or in anyway manipulate me into marrying her. She just asked and I said yes,” he shrugged again, “maybe I was a little motivated by gratitude at the time, I don’t know, but I have never regretted that decision. I know what she looks like to others, how harsh and cold she can be, but I swear by the creator, she is the most incredible, compassionate, and loving person I have ever known.”

Scar shifted suddenly, lowering his forehead to the ground by Mile’s feet. “[Forgive me, my brother. I have been a fool.]”

“How were you supposed to know?” Miles gripped his shoulder and pushed him upright, “you had the best intentions.” Scar opened his mouth, but Miles shook his head tiredly. “I need to sleep and so do you.”

Scar nodded, gave Miles one more long sympathetic look and departed.

\---

The cell smelled of bleach, human waste, and despair. Olivier stared unseeing at the lumpy, stained mattress and the rusty bed frame bolted to the floor. The warden was saying something, but it was muted, Olivier quirked a brow at the woman who muttered something about thinking she was tough and then the cell door was shut with a slow groan and a resounding clank. The bolts clicked shut one after another.

The minute she’d arrived in a Central City holding cell she’d called her lawyer. Using her own sister as legal defense probably wasn’t the most recommended course of events, but she’d wanted the best and the best was Strongine Armstrong. Within twenty minutes the burly woman had been marching through the jail her floral dress somehow making her  _ more  _ intimidating. 

Under other circumstances Olivier would have loved watching her younger sister turn the place upside, not backing down until each of her demands were met. As it stood, Olivier was simply grateful that she’d been granted protection. Solitary confinement was hell, but in her state of less than full health she needed the extra security.    

The smell overwhelmed her and she knelt over the toilet, emptying her churning stomach. She wasn’t spineless, she reminded herself as she pressed her forehead against the cool cement block wall. She was being smart. As she pressed a hand against the barely discernible swell of her stomach, she knew she knew she was making the right choice. It wasn’t just her safety anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As always please let me know what you think! :)


	22. Truth and Falsehood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends, thanks for coming by for another chapter. Happy reading!

The arrival of Miss Catherine Elle Armstrong in Ishval caused quite a stir, or rather her chaperone, a giant of a woman with the signature Armstrong blonde hair and blinding sparkles, caused quite a stir. Scar gathered with the others to welcome the envoy--a personal truck belonging to the Armstrong family--though, his reason for being there was not curiosity, but the fact that Miles was standing at his shoulder watching him out of the corner of his eye with a look that could freeze over the desert.

“Miss Strongine! Miss Catherine!” Roy stepped toward them, arms outstretched, “to what do we owe the pleasure?” 

“Cathy wanted to meet the people behind her wildly successful new line, and you know how inappropriate it would be for a young woman to travel all this way alone!” Strongine’s voice, though loud and clear, didn’t boom as much as Scar had anticipated, carrying instead the same authority of her older sister. Catherine smiled shyly from behind her, one hand holding her broad-brimmed straw hat to her head, the other clutching the largest suitcase he had ever seen.

“Miss Armstrong,” Tava bowed her head, “I can never hope to repay you for-”

“You must be Tava!” Catherine seemed to come to life when she recognized her, “I’ve so been looking forward to meeting you!” She dropped the heavy suitcase and grabbed Tava’s hand, “I just  _ know  _ we’ll be best friends! Your letters are so lovely, and your blankets are exquisite!”

Scar watched Tava blush, graciously murmuring a response before Strongine rounded on him. “So.” She said, her eyes narrowing, “I think we can trust Miss Tava to be a responsible chaperone for our  _ dear little sister. _ ” 

Scar swallowed, “er, yes. Tava is quite-”

“Mother and Father send their love, of course.” Strongine adjusted the swathe of gauzy floral-printed fabric that served to keep the sun off her head and shoulders, “is there somewhere we could catch up out of the sun?” 

“My office is just over here,” Roy offered immediately, gesturing, “I want to hear all the news.” 

Scar trailed after the small party, bewildered. Roy and Strongine, who seemed to know each other, chattered pleasantly on the short walk to the command tent, and Miles was silent, his shoulders set in a tense line. Granted, that wasn’t unusual in the days, and now weeks, following Olivier’s arrest. They had heard little, only that she was in solitary confinement, and therefore unable to make or receive calls, and that she was planning to testify in the upcoming trial against General Blackburn. 

“So.” Strongine said again, when Roy closed the tent flap behind them and set to pouring water for her. She set her briefcase on the desk with a thud and turned to study Scar, her arms crossed. “I hope you’re worth the faith my sister, excuse me,  _ our  _ sister has put in you.”

He bowed, “I endeavour to be so.”

She snorted, much like her sister. “She’s a good judge of character, and if she has faith in you, so will I.” A smile lit her face, “welcome to the family, I guess.” He was unprepared for the bone-crushing hug. He stepped back, rubbing his ribs and saw Miles looking faintly amused. His amusement faded when Strongine turned to him. “And you, a fine position you’ve put Livvie in.”

Miles scowled, “You think I wanted this?” 

Strongine’s brows shot up, then furrowed, and her lips turned down. “We’re going to need to work on a cohesive story for her defense.”

“How’s that coming?” Roy asked, with all the sobriety of a general preparing for war. Which, Scar realised, looking at the brigadier general, might not be that far from reality.

“Not phenomenal,” Strongine acknowledged, “but I plan to pursue this with the legal defense strategy that has been passed down the Armstrong line for generations!” She opened her briefcase with a pronounced snap of the clasps. She pulled out a thick folder and handed it to Scar, “here’s a detailed overview of your life. Learn it and destroy it.” 

“What?”

“I need you to be able to convince a judge and jury that your life lines up with the one Olivier has told them about.” Strongine pointed at the door, “I’m serious, go learn that.” Looking both bewildered and affronted, Scar did as he was told. Strongine handed Roy a sealed envelope. “Here, military documents. I don’t know what they are, but Livvie was adamant you have them, so the sooner you read them, the better.”

“Of course,” Roy took the envelope and started to open it.

Strongine frowned at him, “I still need to talk to Colonel Miles. Alone.” The two soldiers exchanged a look before Roy nodded and headed out, pausing to give Miles a reassuring pat on the shoulder. Strongine fixed him with a piercing stare reminiscent of her older sister, and for a long moment they studied each other. 

“How is she?”

“As well as can be expected, all things considered,” Strongine replied levelly. “I’ve spoken with her a few times, but it’s mostly been about what I need to know for her trial. Which brings us here.”

“What do you need me to do? I’ll do whatever I can.”

“For now,” Strongine settled herself at Roy’s desk, pen poised over her notepad, “tell me everything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly what it sounds like.” Strongine scrawled the date on her paper. “From the first time you heard her name until now, I need to know  _ everything. _ ”

\---

Catherine was a suitably appreciative guest, oohing and aahing at the appropriate moments and asking polite questions as Tava showed her around the tent city.

“I say!” She looped her arm through the Ishvalan woman’s, carefully so as not to unbalance her, “it’s much nicer here than I thought. Oh!” She clapped a hand over her mouth, horrified, “that isn’t what I meant! It’s just, not as hot! Being a desert and all!”

Tave smiled gently, “no harm done, Miss Catherine. It’s nearly the beginning of the rainy season, I think. The summer months are not so kind.”

“Oh, don’t call me ‘Miss’ it makes me sound so old! Just call me Catherine, or even Cathy, if you like.”

“Very well then,” Tava nodded, “shall we retire to my tent? I’d be happy to show you the new batch of dyed wools I’m planning to use, and you can see what you think.”

Catherine was complimentary of the tent and the new wool, though she wavered for several minutes at Tava’s invitation to sit until she realised the purpose of the floor cushions. Mei joined them just in time for tea. It turned out they had mutual friends in the Xingese courts, and Tava sat back with some sewing and listened to their conversation.

“Tava, I-” Scar appeared in the doorway, and froze. “Ah, you have company, I’ll come back later.”

“No, stay! I never see you anymore!” Mei pleaded, “Xiao-Mei has been depressed!” As if on cue, the little panda gave a despondent sigh.

“I’m afraid that’s my fault, dear.” Tava apologized, giving her thread a little tug, “I do take up most of his free time.”

“It’s alright,” Mei smiled, “it’s romantic, even if it’s a little gross.”

“Gross?” Scar queried as he took the only unoccupied cushion, pulling Xiao-Mei off Mei’s shoulder and petting her.

“You know,” Catherine clarified, with a knowing look, “when your parents are all mushy. It’s kind of uncomfortable.” 

“Exactly,” Mei nodded, “it’s weird.”

“I see.” He didn’t, but that was beside the point. He saw Tava give the folder an inquisitive look, but neither of them said anything.

“It’s alright,” Catherine had seen the look, too, “I know what’s going on with that. Well, not everything because Livvie is so secretive, but the whole family got a folder like that. See, Aunt Gloria had an affair with a gardener. She hid you away so no one would know, of course, but after that dreadful bout of influenza, well,” she gave a convincing pout, “it was  _ very  _ sad, but Mother and Father didn’t want to abandon you. Not that they acknowledged it, because a child out of wedlock is a scandalous thing, but they raised you in secret. All your needs were provided for and as a teen you came out here to start studying for the priesthood.”

“I had no idea your life was so interesting,” Tava said with a mostly-straight face and then laughed. “Ah, you should see your face!”

“I’m glad you find this amusing,” Scar told her grumpily, but without real malice. 

“Anyway, you really do need to learn this all.” Catherine leaned her elbows on the table, her cheery mood dissapaiting. “I know you didn’t exactly ask for this, but it could save my sister’s life. So, please.”

“I will,” Scar pledged even as her eyes filled with tears. Surprisingly, he didn’t feel panicked as she grabbed a handkerchief from her pocket and began dabbing at her eyes. Having been through a war and lost his family, he understood what she was feeling. 

“I’m sorry,” she sniffed, “it’s just she’s my big sister. I never really got to know her very well, and now-” she broke off with a sob.

Tava and Mei were both staring at him. Tava had no family, and Mei had entirely  _ too much  _ family and, in a strange turn of events, they were the ones who didn’t know what to do. 

“I understand,” he told Catherine, “no need to apologize. I will do everything in my power to see that no harm comes to Gen--to Olivier.”

“I’ll help!” Mei said at once, “I’ll make sure he learns everything. I used to have to do stuff like this all the time when I was going to visit my siblings or aunts.”

“I can help as well,” Tava offered, setting aside her sewing. “We’ll all three learn it, and then we can quiz Scar.”

Catherine brightened a bit at that, rubbing her eyes and putting away the handkerchief. “Thank you all. I think I’d better go find my sister now. Um,” she fixed her hair and put her hat back on, “it was lovely to meet you all. I do wish it could have been under better circumstances.” 

“Here, I’ll help you find her.” Mei leapt to her feet and led the youngest Armstrong out of the tent. 

Scar waited until their voices had faded before turning to Tava who derailed his plans, and train of thought, by kissing him. Her lips were soft and so were the hands clutching his face, and he felt briefly guilty for the roughness of his own skin as he returned the kiss. She pulled back, hands sliding down to his shoulders. He still hadn’t gotten used to this new form of contact, and he stared dazedly as she smirked at him.

“Was there something you wanted to say?”

He nodded slowly and after a moment she raised her brows. He fought down a blush, and cleared his throat, drumming his fingers on the folder. “This feels wrong.”

She frowned, “it does?”

He nodded, “I seek atonement not a further path of sin, but the way forward is through a web of lies. I understand that our creator sometimes requires us to do difficult things, but is lying something I should do?”    

  “Ah,” Tava nodded, “a difficult decision, indeed. Perhaps, you need to weigh the costs of both options.”

“A life for a clear conscience?” Scar snorted, “my choice is clear.”

“And yet you are still troubled.”

“All I want is to cleanse myself and live a life of peace. I guess I can war a little longer.”

Tava nodded, then smiled, “at least now, you’re not alone.”

Scar couldn’t help but smile back. “No,” he agreed, “I am not alone.”   

\---    

Olivier was soaking up every minute of her one daily hour outside her cell when a guard ordered her inside. She went without arguing, having already learned the hard way that arguing with the prison guards would only end in withheld meals, not something she wanted to risk with a baby on the way. 

She was lead to a closet-sized room with a telephone inside, a room she already knew was her only contact to the outside world. As soon as the door shut behind her, she fumbled for the phone. The single bulb in the room had burned out and the guards hadn’t bothered replacing it. When she finally got the grimy receiver to her ear Strongine was humming a tune Olivier recognized as a popular Ishvalan fireside song.

“Gini?”

“Livvie! I swear they make us wait as long as possible so we’ll get bored and then you won’t get proper legal counsel.” Her voice got a little farther away as she dug for a pencil and paper, “I’ll make a note to write Judge Adams about that. Now,” she cleared her throat, “I’ve spoken with Dimitri--and try to get used to referring to him that way, it won’t help if you get confused--and he’s going to work with us. Roy-boy has those files you asked me to give him.”

“And Miles?”

There was a long silence, before Strongine said, in a gentle voice copied off Amue, “look, sweetie, I’m not sure he’s going to be as helpful as you were thinking.”

“What do you mean?” Olivier demanded, “is he alright?”

“He’s fine,” Strongine reassured, “but he wasn’t very happy about-” she hesitated, then carried on in a brisk, business-like voice, “the baby.”

“Oh.” Olivier tried, and failed, to sound as business-like as her sister. Her throat felt very tight suddenly, and her eyes pricked with unbidden tears. 

“I’m sorry, Livvie.” Strongine gave her a moment to compose herself, then went on, “look, as your lawyer, I have to advise you to cut ties and try to avoid bringing him up, so he doesn’t catch the prosecutor’s eye.”

“Cut ties?” Olivier laughed harshly, “Gini, I can’t communicate with  _ anyone  _ right now.”

“Fair enough.” Strongine sighed, “anyway, that’s only my advice as a lawyer. As your sister, I think it might be worth it to try and work things out. We can fight anything out in court, but it’ll be better for everyone in the long run if you’re sure about who’s going to raise the baby from the get-go. On that note, are you sure you don’t want me to tell Mother and Father? They can prepare to raise the child, just in case.”

“I understand. I’m just not ready.”

“Of course.” Strongine tapped her fingers on her desk loud enough Olivier heard the echoes through the phone. “Are they giving you proper prenatal care? Enough time outside? I’ll be back in Central early next week, but I’m happy to call and get things taken care of for you if you need.”

“It’s fine,” Olivier bit her lip, “I’m not looking to cause trouble.”

The tapping intensified. “I’m going to see if they’ll let Doctor Einfield treat you. Father will be giving a generous donation to the penitentiary’s medical facilities.”     

“Alright.” There was a loud rap on the door. “That’s my warning, I need to go.”

“I’ll call again as soon as I can. I love you, sister.”

“Love you, too.”

Olivier was stoic as she was marched back to her cell. She was pretty sure the guards could tell she was upset, but she had no intention of giving them the satisfaction of seeing her cry. Once safely inside her cell, her inhibitions vanished and she sank onto the cot, letting herself be overcome by tears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Sorry it took ~12 years to update.
> 
> As always, please let me know what you think. :)


	23. Interlude in Purple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a mini chapter!
> 
> Happy Reading!

She didn’t have a way to measure time, and she’d given up on scratching marks onto the wall to measure the passage of days, but it was dark and her stomach was stretched like a balloon when her cell door swung open unexpectedly. She scrambled to her feet and peered at the dimly illuminated doorway, as her eyes adjusted she could only make out two men.

“Hello, Sir.” 

She barely believed her ears, but as her eyes focused she could make him out plainly. “Karley!” She’d blame her pregnancy hormones if anyone asked, but she threw her arms around him. “What? How?!”

“When I stopped receiving orders, I headed back to Briggs,” the other--she now recognized as Gloster--filled in, “Karley caught me up. I have friends here, so I called in a few favors.”

“How are you, Sir?” Karley asked, worming out from her grasp. “You look, uh-” he eyed her belly, “um. Wow.”

“Shut up,” she grumbled, rubbing her bump, “Armstrongs have big babies, okay?”

“Yes, Sir!” He snapped her a quick salute. “He’s going to look his uncle from day one, huh?”

“Look, we don’t have a lot of time.” Gloster cut in, “I wanted to let you know Blackburn’s trial--”

“Why haven’t I had to testify yet?”

“Well,” Gloster and Karley exchanged a look, “he attempted suicide a few weeks ago. He’s just now passed, so the trial’s off.”

“What?” Olivier sank onto the cot. “He-After everything?”     

“The good news is most of the incriminating evidence he had against you is being tossed as coming from an unreliable source.”

“I allowed myself to be caught in a conspiracy to cover up his role in the Promised Day for  _ this _ ?”

“I’m sorry, Sir.” Gloster gave Karley a sharp nudge and the younger man hurried forward, pulling a large pack off his back.  

“I’ve got something that might cheer you up,” he offered, opening the pack.

“Unless you have Miles in there-” she broke off, lump rising in her throat. She didn’t know if Miles would even want to talk to her, not when he’d been so unhappy about her pregnancy. 

“Next best thing,” Karley said cheerfully, missing her downturn in mood, “here.” She took the radio headset disbelievingly and slowly fitted it onto her head. “It’s all keyed up and ready so just press this button when you’re ready.” He and Gloster backed out, “we’ll give you some privacy.” 

Olivier took a deep breath and pushed the button. “Hello?”

There was a pause and then softly, as though afraid she wasn’t real, “Olivier?” Miles’ voice tender and hopeful sent a jolt of warmth through her. 

“Miles!”

“It’s really you!” 

“Yes!” She rubbed at the tears that sprang up. Pregnancy had turned on a seemingly unstoppable faucet in her tear ducts. 

“I miss you so much.” 

“I miss you, too.” She took a steadying breath, “tell me what’s happening out there. I’m not even sure how long I’ve been here.”

“Strongine’s been prepping everyone for the trial, especially now that it looks like it’ll be sooner than later. She’s been trying to keep me out of it as much as possible, which I suppose is just as well. Especially since she doesn’t seem to like me. I thought at first it was the Ishvalan thing, but she likes Scar fine, so I don’t know why-”

“Maybe it’s because you told her you’re not happy about the baby,” Olivier suggested flatly.

“I suppose that could--” she could practically hear the gears in his brain grinding to a stop. “I’m sorry, the  _ what _ ?”

“The baby.” Olivier frowned at the radio equipment. “Miles, she-” she faltered, “she did tell you I’m pregnant, didn’t she?”

“You’re-” Miles whispered dazedly,  _ “pregnant? _ ” 

Olivier felt a laugh, partly relief and partly confusion, bubble up in her. “Yes! Yes! Miles, you’re going to be a dad!”

“O-oh.” Miles sounded distant and then there was a resounding thud.

“Miles? Miles!”

Scar’s voice cut in expectedly. “He’s fainted. Give me a moment to get him up.” There was a pause and then, “oh, and congratulations, I suppose.” She heard a quiet slapping sound and Scar grumbling under his breath in Ishvalan. 

After a minute, Miles came back on. He sounded both overwhelmed and giddy. “Sorry. I just didn’t think--I mean, I had no idea. How long?”

“I found out a few days before I was arrested. I was about a month along.”

“That means-” she heard him counting under his breath, “Olivier! You’re five months along!”

“Really?” She glanced down at her stomach. “Armstrongs really  _ do  _ have big babies.” She bit her lip. “Miles?”

“Yes?”

“Are you happy?”

“Yes!” He almost shouted, “I’m so happy I could--I could kiss you!” 

The second half of the statement was definitely not directed at her, and she heard Scar mutter “please don’t” in the background. She laughed again. 

“Have you thought about a name, yet? Do you think it’ll be a boy or a girl? I bet it’s a girl. She’ll look like you, except I suppose her eyes would be a different color. Red and blue, so purple?”

“I-” Olivier giggled, momentarily forgetting her dingy surroundings, “I don’t think that’s how it works!”

“You don’t know that’s  _ not  _ how it works.” Miles protested, “I think it makes sense.”

“If you say so.”

“Have you felt her kick, yet?”

“I’m not sure. I think so, but it might also be gas.”

“Wow.” Miles sounded suddenly forlorn, “I can’t believe I’m missing that.”

“I’m sorry, Miles.” She closed her eyes and leaned back against the cell wall. “This wasn’t how I pictured starting our family.”

“You’ve actually thought about it, then?” His voice went soft on the other end of the line. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to have children.”

“I wasn’t sure either, honestly, but when I started thinking about retiring I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” She ran a hand over her bump thoughtfully, “Miles?”

“Mmh?”

“The thing is, I’m not exactly young anymore. As far as the doctor here has told me, everything’s fine, but he never gives me details so I don’t really know. Even if I carry this one safely, I don’t think we’ll be able to have any others. I know you’ve always wanted a big family.”

“That’s alright.” Miles didn’t hesitate, “I was happy with you when I thought we would never have children at all. I’d be devastated if, Ishvalla forbid, something happened to our child, but I’d never hold it against you.”

“Even if-”

“Even if  _ anything. _ Olivier, I love you.”

“I love you, too.” 

“Excuse me, Sir?” Karley poked his head in apologetically. “They’re about to change guards, so we have to go.”

She nodded. “Did you hear that Miles?”

“Yes, dearheart. I miss you. Stay strong for me.”

“I miss you, too. I need you to stay strong, too. For me  _ and  _ our baby.” 

Karley and Gloster vanished into the night, and Olivier let happy tears flow, unaware that in the far distant desert Miles was doing the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> Sorry this chapter is so little, I just wanted a fluffy little scene to break up the angst.


	24. In Parallel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for not updating this in FOUR months. This semester got me down. 
> 
> Also, I was experimenting a bit there in the middle, so hopefully it's all clear. 
> 
> Happy reading!

General Mustang orders Sergeants Roach and Murray to escort her to Resembool, allows them to borrow a military truck. He doesn’t ask if she wants any of her people to travel with her, for comfort, for  _ propriety _ , and she doesn’t fight him. Xander wants to, she can see it on his face, but even after nigh on a decade and a half, she doesn’t think it’s wise for the two of them to travel alone, lest anyone connect the dots between a shamed Temple daughter and a young novice. 

The road, if it can be called that, is bumpy to say the least. Sergeant Murray apologizes again and again as she is jostled and Liam Roach looks like he wants to die every time a bump sends him careening into her. She’d offered to take the small middle seat, but neither of the soldiers had taken her up on the offer. 

“Miss Tava?” 

“Yes, Master Liam?” 

His pale face gets that flushed red around the edges that so many Amestrians do when they encounter Ishvalan customs and courtesies. She’d asked a few soldiers what they prefered to be called, if it bothered them so much, but they’d all become abashed instead.

“Are you alright? You look a little green.”

“Green?” She touched her face, uncertainly. 

“He means you look like you’re going to puke.” Murray translated helpfully. 

“Oh,” she gave them her best apologetic smile, “I’m a bit nervous is all.”

“Miss Winry is really good,” Liam assured her, “she’ll take good care of you.”

“I am sure,” she replied, inclining her head graciously, “nevertheless, nerves are as they are.” She thinks she can trust the young woman, otherwise, surely not so many would have recommended her. Even so, she thinks if Anastasia Bradley’s life were in her hands--the wife of the man who killed  _ her  _ father, massacred her people--she isn’t so sure she could trust herself. She takes a steadying breath and watches the sand begin to give way to shrubbery. If the Rockbells opt to take her life while she is in their care, she has a handle on her regrets, if nothing else.

\---

_ Deep breath.  _

Needle in your vein.

_ Chain on your wrist.  _

Faces unreadable beneath surgical masks.

_ Show no fear. _

Count backwards from one hundred. 

_ Feet in the stirrups.  _

100

_ Watch the doctor’s face.  _

99

_ Strain to see what he writes on his clipboard. _

98

_ Show no fear. _

Wakefulness stirs slowly. 

_ Back to four grey walls. _

You lived through the night.

_ Is it just you, or are the walls getting closer? _

Screaming in pain.

_ Feel the sunlight on your face. _

Wake the neighborhood.

_ Is time even passing? _

Days blend into nights and back into days.

_ Wash up. Get dressed. _

Look, the port is all healed up!

_ Strongine!  _

“I’m going to connect the nerves now.”

_ Phantom labor pains.  _

Still a long way to go.

_ “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” _

\---

Miles took a deep breath as he crossed the threshold into the courtroom. After a long argument with his superior, he’d forgone his glasses and he felt he might as well be naked. He glanced back to the box her family is seated in. Scar, wearing an Amestrian suit, looked like he wanted to die, but he’s at least attempted to maintain a conversation with Alex who has embraced the fake brother responsibility wholeheartedly. 

Neither Strongine or Olivier were anywhere to be seen, but he’d been told they wait until all the observers are in the courtroom before bringing out the defendant. He was nervous, but also eager. She was eight months along, and he’d been daydreaming about her bump, her glow, but he wanted, no  _ needed,  _ to see the real thing. Needed to be sure she was alright, that it’s  _ real. _

The judge entered, and Miles rose along with everyone else. He sank back down and barely managed to keep himself from twisting to stare when the back door opened. The first thing he made note of was the rattling of chains. As soon as she stepped into his line of sight, he began mentally cataloging her appearance, analyzing every piece of information.

In lieu of her uniform, she was wearing a maternity gown. It was crisply ironed, but there was no way to diminish or downplay her massive belly. Miles had seen pregnant women before, he would swear he had, and he didn’t know whether it was the shock of seeing her for the first time in seven months, or if her bump was just that big, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. 

He barely heeded the reading of the charges. He had memorized them after all, trying to find a hole or a gap, something,  _ anything  _ to get her out of the situation. She sat when the reading was done, and he didn’t miss how far back she needed to sit from the table to have room for her belly, or the way she couldn’t quite conceal a wince as she grabbed her back.

He had Strongine’s opening statement memorized, too. She spoke smoothly and flawlessly, underlining Olivier’s many accomplishments, the weight of the coup de tas, and even the abuses she had endured. Colonel Morgan’s death, Strongine had explained, was the pivotal point of the case. If she could convince the jury that it was justified, the rest was political mumbo jumbo. He sat a little straighter when she called her first witness, though. She had refused to tell him anything about her witnesses or her strategy, but Olivier trusted her and so did he. His stomach clenched at the sight of the first witness, anyway.

“Please state your name for the record.” By normal standards, the woman perched awkwardly on the witness’ seat was very tall. Next to Strongine, though, she looked positively diminutive. 

“Evie Morgan.” She was soft-spoken, too, her eyes downcast as she swept a lock of dark hair out of her face. 

“Thank you, Ms. Morgan. If you would, please state your maiden name.”

“My maiden name was Evie Buccaneer.” 

Strongine nodded, “thank you. Your relationship to the deceased Colonel Morgan?”

“He was my husband.”

“Was he a good husband?”

“Objection!” The prosecutor barely managed to get the word out before the judge waved a hand and overruled him, obviously curious about where Strongine was going.

Evie snorted slightly “not at all.”

“And why was that?”

“He was a drunkard and an adulterer.” 

“I see. Was he ever violent?”

“Often.”

“You mentioned he was an adulterer. To your knowledge was he ever violent to the other women?”

“Yes. Often.”

“And how do you know that? Surely he didn’t bring other women around and abuse them in front of you.” 

“No, he did not. I have letters, though. From my brother, when he was stationed under my husband on the Aerugean border.”

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, Your Honor, copies of the letter are before you. If you’d like you may follow along, as my witness reads.” Strongine turned back to Evie and gave her an encouraging smile. “Just the sections we talked about, when you’re ready.”

Evie cleared her throat, studied the letter for a minute, and began in a soft, faltering, voice. “This is from his first letter. ‘Well, I wanted to tell you your suspicions were wrong, but that bastard is definitely screwing someone else. A female colonel, pretty enough, but rumor has it she’s only gotten this far because of that.’” Evie cleared her throat and shuffled the papers. “This is two letters later. ‘I saw something a few days ago that made me realize I was wrong about that colonel. He wants to screw her, for sure, but she won’t put out. He’d probably be nicer to be around if she would.’” 

Miles shot a glance at Olivier, but her face was impassive. Frozen. He’d known she and Buccaneer hadn’t gotten along right at the start (though, he was one to talk, having punched her in the face) but this was more extreme than he had expected. He’d never known Buccaneer to be anything other than respectful to women, and he was taken aback. 

“This is from a few weeks later, ‘I think he’s going to kill her. I’m not being dramatic, either. He wants her dead.’” Evie wiped her eyes, “sorry.” She cleared her throat and began again, “‘She hasn’t eaten in days, no rations, and everyone is too scared to give her theirs. I tried, but she just blew me off.’”

Strongine smiled encouragingly, “can you skip down to the August 17th letter?” 

Evie nodded, “‘I think I saw something I shouldn’t have. I have to do something. I don’t know what yet, but if I don’t do anything, she’ll be dead before the end of the week.’” Evie lowers the letter, “that’s the last one. My brother had to relearn how to write after he lost his arm and got automail.”

“Thank you, Evie. Did Carlisle ever tell you  _ how  _ he lost his arm, exactly?” 

Olivier’s face is still cooly blank. Miles understands now, more than ever, why they erroneously call her an ice queen. It’s an impressive front, but a front nonetheless. He wants to gather her in his arms and protect her from all the pain and sorrow she’s feeling. That line of thinking is dangerous, and he swallows a lump in his throat and tries to force himself to stop imagining resting his head on her belly and listening to their child’s heartbeat. 

“He always maintained it was during a raid, but-” she drew a breath, “he promised me that my husband was never going to hurt me again. I asked him once if that colonel had anything to do with it, and he told me it wasn’t.” 

“So, to be clear, your brother  _ knew  _ that Colonel Morgan was dead, something that wasn’t definitively proved until this recent investigation and he denied that the then-Colonel Armstrong had any part in it?” 

“That is correct.” 

There was a bit of rustling at the prosecutor’s desk and Strongine smiled, “no further questions, Your Honor.” 

The prosecutor asked Evie a few questions, but found nothing new. Miles watched Olivier out of the corner of his eye. She had started shifting more than before, but it seemed to be more the sorts of things he remembered his mother doing during any of her five pregnancies than any kind of emotional distress. 

If he hadn’t been so stressed about the verdict, Miles probably would have been very bored during the trial which dragged on for several painfully slow days. After Evie’s testimony, several soldiers were interviewed about their experiences with her. Most of the men from the west only had vague memories of her, and the Briggs’ men were adamant they had never seen her with Blackburn or Raven. 

“Blackburn? Was he that fat old general with the mustache? That was General Gunderson? Oh! Sorry, Sir.”

“I couldn’t say, to be honest, there are a lot of people in Fort Briggs, after all.”

One MP was willing to testify on her behalf about the Promised Day. “She grabbed my gun and held it to her own head, because she was so concerned about minimizing the deaths and she knew we needed to rally together.” 

“Well, Miss Armstrong,” Strongine’s nostrils flared at the prosecutor’s tone, but she said nothing, “you’ve made some interesting emotional appeals on behalf of your sister. A lot of men willing to say very nice things about her leadership. But, can those testimonies really be trusted?” He allowed a moment’s pause, which felt like an age to Miles before continuing, “to find out, the prosecution calls Florentino Miles to the stand.”

A murmur went through the courtroom and Miles resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and see if there was another Florentino Miles waiting around. He made his way up to the stand and after taking an oath to tell the truth, sat slowly in the witness’ seat.

“Colonel Miles,” the prosecutor handed him a slip of gilded paper, his face like a cat about to bat at a mouse, “would you care to tell the courtroom what this is?” 

Strongine’s face showed she didn’t know what it is, but it’s her sister that he looked at as he answered. “It’s a marriage license.” 

“Could you read the names on it, please?” 

He swallowed, still maintaining eye contact with Olivier whose face had contorted strangely, and read “Olivier Mira Armstrong and Florentino Miles.”      

The murmur from before returned, the volume doubled. Olivier grabbed Strongine’s arm and the taller woman bent down to listen before rising. 

“Your Honor,” her booming voice cut through the noise easily, “the defense requests a recess.”

“On what grounds?”

Strongine was the least composed Miles had ever seen her, granted he doubted many people would have taken her scowl for stress as he understood it. “Because,” she said, waving a huge hand in the general direction of her sister, “the defendant is in labor.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I'm mean.
> 
> Thanks for reading! As always, please let me know what you think!


	25. By Some Miracle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! 
> 
> I'm sorry it's taken so long to update. Real life has...not been easy of late. But, I've got a little chapter for you all now!

There were few good things Miles was inclined to say about his longest and best-kept secret being exposed in a full courtroom, but at least no one dared stop him as he pushed his way through the crowds and MPs to get to Olivier’s hospital room. A doctor and several nurses were crowded around her bed and he slipped between them to take her hand.

“Miles! I’m sorry, I didn’t know he-”

“Shh, love.” He moved to lift and kiss her hand, and stopped when something jangled and she winced. Granted, that might have been from a contraction, but what made his heart sink was the handcuff binding her to the bedrail. He turned to the doctor, “is this really necessary?” 

The doctor gave him a half-glance and shrugged. “Orders of the MPs, nothing I can do.”

“Miles, love, it’s fine.”

“It-” he stopped and studied her face, somehow both ashy and mottled pink, “isn’t it early?” She nodded, tears welling in her eyes. He felt fear rising in himself, but he swallowed it down and kissed her forehead. She needed him to stay calm, to let her do what she needed to, with his support rather than hindering her with his worry. “It’s going to be alright, love.” 

“I don’t think it is,” she whispered, “I’m afraid.”

“I know,” he rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb, “I know.” Her face scrunched and her hand tightened around his fingers making him wince and she let a pained whimper escape her. “Hang in there, love.”

“Easy-” she paused, panting, and he leaned in, “easy for you to say!”

He chuckled, earning himself an angry glare. “You’re doing great.” This seemed to be the wrong thing to say because tears welled in her eyes. “Love, what’s wrong?” 

“I’m so sorry Miles, I did everything wrong!”

“No, no you didn’t! You did your best, and it’s not your fault-”

She shook her head, “you don’t understand. I had a responsibility to you as my subordinate and I took advantage of that! I never should have gotten involved with you; I told myself it was okay because I loved you, but if I had really loved you I would have kept my distance.”

“Liv, where is this coming from? I have no regrets.”

“You should! You-” she broke off squeezing his fingers as another contraction moved through her. When it ended, she gasped and continued, “I dragged you into this whole crazy mess, just like I dragged you into everything. I-” 

He kissed her forehead again, “first of all, you didn’t drag me into anything. You know as well as I do, I’ve never been one for rules; if I hadn’t been interested I would have made your life hell.” Her fingers tightened on his again and he waited for her contraction to pass before going on. “So, maybe we both made mistakes. But, you haven’t been my commanding officer for over a year now and I still love you. If you want, we can have a proper wedding when this is all over. I’ll ask the priests if we can have one in the Temple-”

She shook her head, “Miles-”

“It doesn’t matter now, Love.” 

“I was-”

He leaned down and whispered very quietly in her ear, “I forgive you.” 

For a moment, he didn’t think she’d heard, or understood, but she nodded and whispered “thank you” before her face contorted with the pain of another contraction.

“These are very close together,” the doctor commented, “how long have you been having contractions?”  

“Since last night.” Her answer came through gritted teeth.

“Olivier!” Miles gaped at her, not certain if he was more impressed or angry. “You should have come here last night!” 

“No time to worry about that now!” The doctor lifted the blanket over her legs and gestured for a nurse, “now it’s time to push!” 

Miles braced himself on the bed rail as Olivier’s fingers tightened on his with bruising intensity. Worse than that were the tears running down her face as she focused all her effort on pushing. Every moment felt like an eternity, and then all at once the doctor was holding a bloody and screaming baby.

“You did it,” Miles breathed as the doctor handed the baby to a nurse, announcing it was a girl. “A girl, Liv! We have a baby girl!” His heart was bursting with joy and he couldn’t take his eyes off the tiny child as the nurses began cleaning her. Olivier was strangely quiet and when he finally looked at her, her face was pained.

“A girl?”

His heart sank, “is something wrong with-?” he broke off uncertainly as her face contorted again.

“I thought-” she gritted her teeth, unable to go on.

“I know you’re tired,” the doctor told her, still seated at the end of the bed, his hands under the blanket, “but you’ve got to give us one more push!”

“One-?” Miles’ gaze snapped to the doctor, “what?” He could barely believe his eyes as the doctor carefully pulled out another baby, equally bloody and equally loud. He stared, his mouth opening and shutting soundlessly. 

“Miles?’ Olivier’s voice was weak, “are-” she pulled his gaze to hers, blue eyes wide and frightened, “are they both alright?”  

“Your babies are fine, remarkably healthy for being early.” The doctor told them, finally standing. 

Olivier’s expression changed to one of such sheer joy that Miles couldn’t help but beam back at her. “Liv! We have babies!  _ Two  _ babies!” He was laughing in astonishment, as though he had never heard of such a thing. 

“Here you are,” a nurse smiled at them both as she placed a now-clean bundle of pink in Olivier’s arms, “your daughter.” 

“And your son.” A second nurse carefully positioned a second bundle in her arms, making sure Miles was helping her hold him before letting go. 

For several minutes, they were silent, watching their perfect infants, gentle fingers touching tiny noses and cheeks. It was only as Olivier, aided by the nurses, situated their children to begin nursing, that Miles spoke. “They’re so perfect.” 

Olivier nodded, waving her thanks to the nurses as they stepped away, “have you thought about names?” 

“Some, but I didn’t know I would need two!” He leaned down to sweep sweaty hair off her face, “why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I-” her face crinkled a little, “I wasn’t sure they would both-” she stopped unable to say what she meant, “I couldn’t bear to get your hopes up when I was so unsure myself. I’m sorry, Miles.” 

He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, “I understand, my love. But, they’re here now and they’re safe and healthy, all they need now are names.”

“I was thinking, if you like it, we could name him Torin Carlisle Miles.” 

He felt tears prickle at his eyes unbidden, but not unwelcome. “It’s perfect. For her, what would you think of Arrietty Winter?”

“It’s beautiful.” After a moment of watching their children contentedly, Olivier spoke again, “Miles, we need to be realistic. Our children need a good home.”

“I’m not going to give them up!”

She smiled tiredly up at him, “I know, love. It’s just everything else you may have to give up that I’m concerned about. I don’t know that you can raise  _ twins _ in Ishval. Not when you’re working so much, not by yourself.”

“I could get help from Ian and-”

“They have their own children, Miles. We should hire a full-time carer if you’re going to back to Ishval with them. I’d like Omi, but she’s not so young anymore, so we had best find someone else.”

“I can do that.” He nodded determinedly, “it’ll be tight, but-”

“You’ll have access to my money. Now that its public knowledge, it won’t matter if people notice.” 

He chuckled slightly, “do I even want to know how much money that is?” 

“Enough to spoil our children, though I’d rather they learn simplicity.” At Miles’ nod, she stroked Torin’s cheek while Miles gently touched Arrietty’s. “Miles?”

His clenched at her soft, almost timid tone, “yes, love?”

“What will you tell them? About me, I mean?”

“I’ll-” he gasped as Torin’s eyes opened sleepily,  _ “Olivier.” _

“He has your eyes! Oh, Miles! They’re so beautiful!” 

He was beside himself, staring silently, tears welling up in his eyes. He was swirling with emotions, only some of which he could name. He was overflowing with love and joy, but there was an element of melancholy. His own red eyes had given him so much grief, had taken him a lifetime to learn to tolerate, had nearly cost him his life time and again. And yet, he was proud of his connection to his grandfather and his heritage, loved his red-eyed brethren. His heart was full almost to bursting.

“Are you crying, you silly man?” There was no bite in her voice, only a sort of teary-eyed amusement.

“I think I am.” He wiped his eyes, laughing a little. He leaned down to kiss first her and then their son, moving to press his lips to Arrietty’s forehead last. 

“She looked at me a little while ago,” Olivier murmured as he straightened, “her eyes are blue, like mine.”

He nodded, then gave her a look of feigned disappointment, “not purple?” She laughed, but fell back against her pillows quickly. He smoothed her hair gently, “why don’t you rest? I can hold them now, or there must be a bassinet.”

“I-” she seemed to be fading into the pillows as she spoke, but there was an edge of determination to her that was more than familiar to him, “-I don’t want to miss a single moment. If I sleep now, there’s no guarantee they will still be here when I wake up. I can’t risk it.”

“I wouldn’t let them be taken away without waking you.”

“Even if you woke me, I couldn’t bear the thought of losing any time with our children. Not when I might never see them again.”

“Don’t talk like that, Olivier!”

“I have to be realistic! These past seven months I haven’t allowed myself to get my hopes up. It would only make everything worse.”

“Olivier-”

“Don’t look at me like that. It’s hard enough already.” 

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it. I love you and our children so much, I can’t let myself think that they’ll have to grow up without you.”

“You have to, Miles!” She shifted as though to grab his hand and stopped herself, realizing the inherent pointlessness with her shackled arm. 

“Please, let’s just enjoy this time we have.” Miles perched on the edge of the bed, hand coming to cup her cheek, before sliding down to touch Arrietty’s cheek again.   

“Would you like to hold her? I think she’s done nursing right now.” He nodded eagerly and she smiled as she helped him slide their daughter into his arms. His face shifted in awe and joy again as he looked at her, felt her in his arms for the first time. “You look good with a baby in your arms.” He glanced at her, amused and she had to shake her head. “I just mean, being a father suits you.” 

“Not half so much as being a mother suits you.” 

“Tch! I have no idea what I’m doing, all I did was give birth.”

“All-?” He shook his head at her, laughing a little, “you act as though that isn’t absolutely amazing in and of itself. You’re already an amazing mother.” 

“Will they think so? Won’t they feel abandoned when I go back to prison, which could be in a few hours?”

“No. I’ll tell them how much you loved them, how you wanted to make a better future for them.” He was sniffling a little, but this time she made no remark. “I’ll tell them their mother was so brave she decided to sacrifice herself so a really, really, bad man wouldn’t be able to hurt anyone ever again.”

A deep voice in the doorway cut off Olivier’s response, “I would hold off on that, if I were you.” 

“Gini?” Olivier stared at her sister, her face a mixture of hopeful and terrified, “what do you mean?” 

Strongine positively beamed. “Well, it’s not exactly a clean slate, but Judge Adams just declared a mistrial.”

“A mistrial?” Miles grabbed Olivier’s free hand, clutching Arrietty carefully to his chest, “does that mean what I think it means?” 

“It means-” Strongine snapped her fingers at the MP who was stationed outside the door “-you can take those cuffs off my sister now.” Her smile grew wider as smiles bloomed across two teary faces. “You’re going home, Livvie. It’s over.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please, do let me know what you think! I appreciate each and every comment that I receive. <3


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